


blood sweat and heartbeats

by singsongsung, sylwrites



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A Sprinkle of Heartbreak, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Childhood Friends to Lovers, F/M, a dash of fluff, figure skating AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 114,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: They stand on top of the podium, even though it’s tall and Jughead sort of has to hop up and then yank her up after him. She thinks about what Coach Penny said.You could go to the Olympics.Standing on top of that podium with Jughead, spotting pride in her mother’s smile, watching baby Jellybean clap her small, chubby hands together, Betty thinks,Yes. Yes, we could.-A journey in six parts.





	1. eight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based loosely on the narrative of the careers of Canadian ice dancers Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir; primarily the concept of two kids being paired together early in life, eventually setting their sights on the Olympics, and the trials and successes contained within such a lengthy partnership. If you're familiar with Virtue/Moir (if you've read their book), you'll note that we've excluded a lot from their narrative and also added a lot in to create an ice-dancing universe suited to Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones. That said, this is a Bughead fic through-and-through, not RPF-as-Bughead, so if you're not familiar with Virtue/Moir that won't be an issue either!
> 
> Neither of us are skaters, so please forgive us any inaccuracies regarding various movements, the skating season schedule, details about sponsorships, etc. If you're a skater or a fan of the sport, there are some easter eggs thrown into this fic - happy hunting! 
> 
> This fic will not update on the four-day schedule we've used for our previous collaborations. We will begin with once-weekly updates, but that will change about halfway through the fic for reasons we think will become apparent. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

_Just a perfect day -_  
_And then later_  
_When it gets dark,_  
_We go home..._

The snow crunches underneath Jughead’s boots as he walks along the cracked sidewalk, away from the faded sign advertising Sunnyside Trailer Park. Fallen leaves from the recent autumn peek out from beneath the snow, brown and crinkly and dead. They blanket the ground beneath the white, appearing sporadically, serving as a reminder of the raking job that the occupants of the trailer park didn’t quite complete before winter suddenly appeared like an unwelcome visitor.

In the distance, he can hear the faint cheers and whoops of boys playing hockey on the frozen pond. It reminds him a little of some of the books he reads: big open spaces and small towns, with carefree noises carrying in the wind. On the pond there’s a rare mash-up of his two worlds - his friends from the trailer park, with their taped-up skates and well-worn sticks, versus the kids from the elementary school that his dad makes him go to on the north side of town. There are better teachers there, his dad says, and it’ll help him go further.

Jughead doesn’t know where _further_ is supposed to take him, exactly. Right now, all he wants to do is go play hockey with Archie and Fangs.

But instead, he’s walking away from the pond. He has taped-up skates, too. They’re slung over his shoulders, with the fraying laces tied together so that he doesn’t have to hold them separately. He doesn’t have a hockey stick, though; he doesn’t need one where he’s going. All he needs for skating practice is those skates and his sweatshirt and the stretchy pants that Coach Penny lets him borrow. And maybe a bag to hide his head in, so that less people see him walking into the rink when the makeshift _Peabody’s Figure Skating_ sign is taped in the window of the double front doors.

Jughead begrudgingly hauls the door open and trudges inside the old arena, making his way to the benches just behind the the boards. He’s tired before he even sits down to put his skates on, and wishes not for the first time today that he could be home with Lois Lowry and Louis Sachar (and sometimes even Franklin W. Dixon, because everyone has to have what his mom calls a ‘guilty pleasure’. Hers comes in a glass bottle most of the time, though she never looks that guilty about it, so Jughead doesn’t know if it counts).

He shoves his foot into his skate. They’re already starting to feel tight - not good tight, either: _bad_ tight, the kind of tight that means _too small_ and makes his dad’s hands shake. Jughead lets out a quiet sigh at the thought of telling his dad that he needs skates again - he’d just gotten these at the end of last winter. Maybe, Jughead thinks, if he’s lucky, they won’t be able to afford new skates and he won’t have to come here anymore. He doesn’t even like sports, but if he has to do them, he wants to play _hockey._ He doesn’t want to figure skate. And he definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t want to _ice dance._

He’s here because of Coach Penny, who Jughead’s dad says is a friend of his. She used to be really good, he says, almost made it to the Olympics and everything, until things went bad and she had to come back to Riverdale. His dad says Penny has a chip on her shoulder, which Jughead guesses is supposed to explain why she’s kind of mean most of the time, but her skating club had needed boys too and before Jughead knew it, his dad was volunteering him.

Just as his heel finally plops into the berth of his right skate, a bright, happy voice calls over the edge of the boards at him, accompanied by a small wave and a quick bob of a blonde ponytail. “Hi Jughead!”

Jughead waves back, just slightly, and hides his smile in his knees as he struggles to make the knots of his laces tight enough. “Hi Betty,” he murmurs shyly in response. He doesn’t like skating much, but at least he doesn’t mind Betty. They’ve been paired together for a few months now. Coach Penny thinks they “sync up”, whatever that means. She’s really nice, anyway, and her eyes are big and kind of pretty, _and_ she lives next door to Archie, so sometimes he gets a ride to Archie’s after practice from her mom.

Jughead stands up on his skates and wobbles to the boards before stepping through onto the ice. He gives a few long strides, letting his calves adjust again to the now-comfortable feeling of slight imbalance, then falls into place beside a pink-clad Betty. She’s been skating since she was three, apparently, and she’s really good - better than Jughead, who just started last year when Penny came around the trailer park looking for boys to pair with her girls. He’s had to do work to catch up to her, which has been not much fun. Jughead doesn’t know why Coach Penny didn’t just have Betty skate by herself instead of giving her a partner - most of her other girls are solo skaters, after all - but he probably shouldn’t complain. If he does, he’ll probably get stuck with Ginger Lopez, and she’s not very nice.

They skate laps to warm up with everyone else, then Coach Penny splits them up onto one side of the rink and has them practice some of the footwork for their routine. They have a competition in a few weeks, and while Jughead thinks they know their stuff okay, there’s still a couple of transitions that are a bit rough. (Coach Penny says they’re “shittier than a pig in a racecar bed”, which Jughead doesn’t think actually means anything.)

Betty’s mom yells tips from the sidelines - “hold your head up higher, Betty!”, “ankle back in place quicker, Jughead!” - and when Jughead accidentally skips a beat before he’s supposed to grab her hands, sending her nearly tripping against the boards, he half-expects Mrs. Cooper to throw something at him.

She doesn’t, but she glares anyway, and Jughead decides that today he’ll just walk back to his house instead of going to Archie’s.

“I’m sorry, Betty,” Jughead mutters to her when she skates back toward him. “Jessica’s counting really loud over there and it screwed me up.”

“That’s okay,” she says primly, tightening her ponytail. “Everybody messes up sometimes!”

“Not you,” he points out, placing one of his hands on her waist before they take a step forward in unison, his other clasped in hers. “You should skate solo. Don’t let me hold you back.”

Betty shakes her head. “You’re not holding me back, Jughead!” she says, smiling at him as he turns her. “Besides, Mom and Coach Penny say I’m probably too big to be a solo skater anyway.”

Jughead crouches down slightly so that Betty can rest partially on his knee, holding tightly around her waist as she bends backward with her heel pulled to her head by the blade of her skate. _He’s_ skinny, Jughead thinks, but Betty is like a feather. He doesn’t know what Coach Penny and Mrs. Cooper are talking about.

When they pull out of their lift, he sees Ginger Lopez making a face at him across the rink. Betty follows his gaze and then wrinkles her nose.

“Ignore her,” Betty advises. “Ginger’s just jealous that she doesn’t get to skate with you.”

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Jughead walks home after practice, tracing back to the trailer park through the steps he’d taken toward the rink. He can’t hear laughter and hollering anymore from over by the pond, and he can see Sweet Pea’s skates resting outside his trailer when he passes by, so he’s pretty sure they’re done playing. He’d expected them to be done by now, but he’d still had a small bit of hope that maybe there’d be some time still after skating for him to go and hang out either with his school friends or his home friends.

 _Maybe tomorrow,_ Jughead thinks, and climbs the steps to his trailer.

His mom’s not home when he steps inside, which isn’t exactly a surprise to him. When she’s not napping on the couch after a bottle of wine, she’s with his baby sister Jellybean at some kind of neighbourhood gathering of women (“it’s all hens chattering, Jug,” his dad says, “you don’t wanna know”). Jughead doesn’t think his parents like each other very much, but they’re still around and he usually gets fed and stuff, so that has to count for something. He’d heard recently that a short girl with pigtails just moved in with Mr. Topaz a couple of rows over - his granddaughter, Fangs had told Jughead - because both of her parents were gone. Jughead can’t imagine that. His parents aren’t as fancy as Betty’s or as nice as Archie’s, but at least they aren’t _gone._

His dad is on the couch watching sports when Jughead walks in. He looks up when Jughead dumps his skates - guards on - onto the floor by the door, grunts a little, then flops back down.

“Where were you, kid?” he asks.

Jughead takes his coat off. “Skating.”

“Right, with Penny. How did it go?”

Jughead shrugs and sits down on the well-worn armchair beside the couch. “It was okay,” he answers. “I only messed up a few times, but the competition is soon, so I shouldn’t be by now.”

“That’s good, kid,” his father replies absentmindedly, reaching down to grasp a half-full beer bottle that’s sitting on the floor. “I know it isn’t your favourite, but you’re helpin’ Penny out.”

“I know.” Jughead fidgets with the worn hem of his t-shirt. Like his skates, it’s starting to not fit very well too, but there are two other empty bottles besides the one in his dad’s hand and he knows it’s not a good time to mention it. Instead, he picks up a book that he’d left on the side table earlier. It’s _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. The librarian told him it’s probably a little old for him, but he’s been borrowing harder and harder books now for at least two years, and he thinks he can handle it.

He reads until whatever his dad is watching is over, letting himself get lost in the world of Tom and Huck and Becky, until finally the trailer door opens and Jughead’s mom walks in with Jellybean on her hip.

“Jug-ee!” Jellybean exclaims excitedly, looking not unlike a giant yellow marshmallow in her snowsuit.

Jughead puts the book away, making sure his bookmark is carefully placed first, then gets out of the chair and walks toward his baby sister. “Hey Jellybean,” he says, scooping her up from his mother. “Did you guys go play?”

“Yah we pwayed wif -”

“She needs to eat supper,” his mother interrupts, looking tired. Her nose is really red, and because Jughead knows what that means, he takes Jellybean immediately into the kitchen to make her a cheese sandwich.

He decides to make himself one while he’s at it, so while Jellybean is on the floor playing with some of his old trucks, Jughead takes an extra couple of slices of bread and a cheese slice and then sticks it in the microwave with his sister’s. He waits thirty seconds, and when it dings, he lifts the plate out carefully and takes it to the table in the corner.

His mother passes by them just as he’s helping Jellybean into his lap. They don’t have a toddler seat for the table, but she’s not big enough yet to reach without a boost, and this seems to work fine.

She observes their plates - a melted sandwich on stale bread on each of them, with processed cheese oozing out of the side of Jellybean’s - then ruffles Jughead’s hair so that his favourite beanie almost falls off.

“You’re a good brother,” she tells him, then goes into the bedroom.

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It snows a lot the next day, so even though Jughead doesn’t get to go to the pond, he also doesn’t have to go to skating, and he gets to spend the day in his and Jellybean’s bedroom reading his library books. He finishes _Tom Sawyer_ and starts on _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , nearly getting all the way through it before his dad makes him go outside to help shovel the truck out.

He still has the book tucked into his backpack the following day at school. Because Jughead goes to the north side’s school, he has to walk across a couple fields to get there the short way. The newly fallen snow has leaked through his boots so that his socks leave water tracks on the tile floor of the hallway, but they dry pretty fast.

To start the day, Jughead gets to sit near Archie for Social Studies, and they spend half an hour throwing wadded-up pieces of notebook paper at each other before Mrs. Brown tells them to settle down and pay attention. He kind of listens: they stop throwing paper, but Jughead starts instead to doodle in the back of his duotang, and only sort of hears her talking about their local representatives and the election for mayor that’s coming up. There’s a girl in his class named Josie whose mom is one of the candidates, and she starts talking about it for half the class anyway, so it’s not like he’s missing much.

After Social Studies they have Language Arts, which Jughead is really good at because he likes to read. Betty’s really good at it, too, but she’s really good at _everything_. She seems to have developed a bit of a cold since Saturday’s skating practice, because she has a note to stay inside at recess. Jughead is kind of jealous; it’s cold outside, and recess isn’t always fun, depending on who he runs into.

But his dad never writes him notes, so Jughead puts his coat and boots back on and goes outside with his fists clenched for warmth inside his threadbare mittens. It ends up being okay: it’s sunny, at least, and he and Trev Brown and Archie build a snowman with no eyes or nose. When the bell rings he goes back inside with a half-smile still on his face and his beanie pulled low to his ears. He leaves his boots in the mudroom and shuffles into the hallway, dragging his wet socks on the floor accidentally before he realizes he should _probably_ tip toe to help keep the school clean.

Just as Jughead is rising to the balls of his feet, there’s a tap on his shoulder. He assumes it’s Janitor Svenson ready to give him heck, but when he turns around he sees Reggie Mantle’s face and his stomach immediately feels queasy.

“What’s with the wet feet, freak?” Reggie asks, crossing his arms. Jughead’s tall, but Reggie’s had a growth spurt too and he’s even taller, a fact that he never lets anyone forget.

“Just got snow in my boots,” Jughead mumbles, starting to turn back around.

“How’d that happen, freak?” Reggie questions, pointing toward the mudroom. “The snow isn’t that high! You got holes in your shoes?”

Jughead’s jaw twitches at the correct guess before he can catch himself and pretend that _no, of course not, everyone gets new boots_ , and unfortunately, Reggie is quick to catch on.

“You do! I knew it!” he chants, pointing. “Why don’t you go get your _mom_ to buy you new ones? Or is she too _poor?_ ”

“Shut up, Reggie,” Jughead says, gritting his teeth. Archie is beside him, and Archie knows where he lives and about his parents and that’s okay, but there are more kids gathered around and the last thing Jughead wants is this kind of attention.

“Go put your _skates_ on then,” Reggie challenges. “Or do ice dancers wear dance shoes? Pointy ones, like a _girl_. God, I knew you were a freak, but I didn’t know you were a _girl_ , too. I’m surprised Betty even will be seen with such a _loser_ -”

Reggie’s words die in the air, hanging on the edge of his tongue, but it’s not because Jughead’s punched him in the nose or even has a witty comeback. No; instead, it’s because Betty Cooper, all four feet and two inches of her, has marched over and planted a kiss on Jughead’s mouth. It’s hard and wet and over before Jughead can register anything other than the loud _smack_ sound that their lips make when she pulls away, and for a moment all the gathered kids stand there dumbfounded.

“You’re a _butt,_ Reggie Mantle,” Betty says, her hands on her hips. “And if you don’t stop teasing Jughead I’ll never help you with your math homework again!”

Jughead watches in amazement as Reggie, the bane of his existence, skulks away into the classroom without another word. The rest of their gathered classmates follow reluctantly, with a couple people patting Betty on the shoulder, including Archie. Betty and Jughead bring up the rear, but before they step inside the classroom he pokes her shoulder. “Betty?” he says quietly.

Betty stops and turns toward him, her signature smile back on her face. “Yes?”

He swallows and looks down, shy again. “Uh, just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies primly. “We’re partners, Juggie. That’s what partners do.”

“Oh,” Jughead says, his cheeks feeling warm. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

At just eight years old, Betty Cooper is intimately acquainted with success. That word, that _feeling_ , has been the guiding light of her young life. She was, her parents tell her, the perfect baby, the kind everyone wants: docile, photogenic, a rare crier. She hit all her milestones early; she got rave reviews from baby-sitters. The moment she stepped foot in Riverdale Elementary School, she began acing tests and winning spelling bees and being chosen to answer questions by smiling teachers. She was young Clara in her ballet school’s annual production of _The Nutcracker_ when she was six (Polly was seven when she had that same role). Archie Andrews says the chocolate chip cookies she brings for bake sales are _the best ever_ , and they’re always the first thing to sell out. She lands toe loops in a way that makes Coach Penny whoop.

Everyone expects Betty to succeed, and she expects it of herself, too, so much so that it keeps her awake some nights.

Which is why it’s a giant, _terrible_ problem that just three weeks out from her first-ever ice dance competition, she can’t hold Jughead’s hand without her palm going sweaty, turning the grip they have on one another uncertain and perilous.

It’s all because she kissed him. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time - like the _only_ idea, really. She thinks it’s stupid that the girls in class admire her flippy skirts and sparkling costumes, while guys like Reggie make fun of Jughead for dancing. Jughead’s a really, really good ice dancer; as good as her, even though he started later. Reggie _wishes_ he could be that good - and Reggie probably wishes he got to hold hands with girls instead of playing hockey and football with stinky boys. She heard Jughead’s dad say as much to him, once: _now you remember, boy, you’re the one who gets to skate with pretty girls all day._ Those words had sprung to her mind as she watched Reggie sneer, and she’d set out, with squared shoulders and determination, to prove to Reggie just how cool Jughead is: cool enough to kiss a girl.

But now she feels awkward around her partner, blushy and shy. Their first few weeks together were like this, full of hesitance and uncertainty. They held hands very loosely and avoided meeting eyes, and instead of putting his hand on her waist, he let his hand hover in the air by her side, not quite touching her leotard. Coach Penny had to skate over and slap his hand onto her, pressing firmly, trying to create the curve of a hip where it does not yet exist on Betty’s body.

They’d gotten over their shyness the first time he made her laugh, with an under-his-breath comment about Ginger Lopez, and Betty had laughed so loudly and abruptly that she’d slapped both their hands, linked together, over her mouth, and when they’d both survived that without catching fatal cases of cooties or something, they giggled together until her mother yelled at them from the boards, and they finally started touching each other the way their coach wanted them to.

Today, however, is even worse than when they first started off. Her hand keeps sliding out of Jughead’s. They get too close and nearly trip over each other. Their waltz is off-tempo, and Betty can _feel_ rays of anger shooting out of Coach Penny’s eyes toward them.

“Listen to the music, Jughead!” her mother calls from the boards, and it flusters him so much that he forgets the next steps, and they end up drifting away from each other on the ice. Betty feels awful.

“It’s not his fault,” she tells her mother, blinking back tears as she skates slowly, reluctantly, toward the two blonde women frowning at the edge of the rink. “It’s mine.”

One of her mother’s eyebrows does That Thing, the thing that tells Betty she’s close to being in serious trouble. “Elizabeth,” she says, and Betty can hear the rest of the sentence loud and clear, even though the words go unspoken: _Coopers don’t cry._

“It’s my fault,” she says again, whispers it to Coach Penny as she tries to swallow her tears.

“What is it?” her coach demands, crouching down to get a better look at Betty’s face. “Nerves? You’re worried about competition?”

“She came first in her singles division last year,” Betty’s mom says, her frown directed over Betty’s head, toward Jughead, who is lingering a few feet behind her.

“It’s different,” Betty says, voice still small. “With - with a - ” _With a boy_ , she almost says, but she catches herself and manages, “With a partner.”

Her coach huffs an irritated sigh. “Betty,” she says. “You’re a winner. I knew that, didn’t I?”

Betty nods, lower lip trembling slightly.

“I saw it in you,” Coach Penny says. “I see it in Jughead, too. You’re going to go far together.” Her voice drops lower, a hissing intensity to it as she says, “You could go to the _Olympics._ ” When Betty’s eyes go wide in her face, her coach nods solemnly. “But you have to concentrate. No getting distracted. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Coach Penny echoes once more, and then straightens up, her jaw setting. Her gaze drifts from Betty to Jughead. “Again,” she demands.

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Dinner is a tense affair, her mom snapping at her dad that he’ll never have to pay for a figure skating costume again if their daughter’s talent starts to wane this early, and maybe he should spend more time encouraging her to work on her technique and less time teaching her about engines. Betty doesn’t eat much. She retreats to her bedroom afterward, ostensibly to work on her book report on _Number the Stars_ but really just to sit on her bed and resist the temptation to bite her fingernails - her mother always says the judges will look at _every_ part of her, from head to toe.

Polly pokes her head in about an hour later. “What happened?” she asks, closing the door softly behind herself and tiptoeing over to Betty’s bed. “Mom seems mad.”

“I kissed Jughead,” Betty blurts.

Polly gasps. “You _kissed_ him?”

Betty nods miserably. “I just - I just wanted to… ” She trails off. She just wanted to show stupid Reggie Mantle. She just wanted Jughead not to look that way he looks sometimes, where everything about his face seems to get sort of shadowed. She just wanted to be a good partner to him, the way he is to her when she’s feeling anxious about the ending pose of their dance and how they always seem to waver in their skates a bit.

“You just wanted to know what it was like?” Polly guesses gently, with all her ten-year-old wisdom.

Betty looks at her lap. That’s not what she was going to say, but the truth is that she now knows what it’s like. She knows what Jughead’s slightly-chapped lips feel like against her own. She knows what he tastes like: like the frosting inside an Oreo. She knows that in order to kiss someone, her nose doesn’t have to smush uncomfortably against theirs - or at least, it doesn’t with Jughead.

“Now I feel… I feel nervous,” she murmurs. “Around him. Because we _kissed_. And it’s making me - it’s making my skating bad.”

“Do you like him, Betty?” her sister asks.

“No,” Betty says automatically, because her parents say she’s too young to like boys, and because she knows what it’s like to have a crush. She had one on her next-door neighbour Archie, back in kindergarten. She named the husband in her dollhouse family after him. She never did that with Jughead.

“It’s okay if you do,” Polly says, looking like she’s trying to suppress a smile. Betty loves her sister, but Polly has been the _tiniest_ bit insufferable since she hit double digits and started acting like she knows all kinds of things.

“I don’t, Poll,” Betty says, but apparently it’s not very convincing because Polly’s smile breaks out of hiding and she starts to sing-song, very softly, “Betty and Jug-head, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-”

“Polly!” Betty squeals, and whacks her sister with a pillow. “ _Shh._ ”

Polly can’t seem to stop laughing. “Is he your _boyfriend_ now?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“ _No,_ ” Betty huffs. “No.” She straightens her spine and rolls her shoulders back, the way she does before taking the ice at competition. “He’s my _partner._ ”

For a moment, Polly looks at her, and Betty thinks maybe she’s managed to make things clear to her sister, but then Polly stage whispers, “First comes _love_ , then comes _marriage_ \- ”

Betty grabs the pillow she thumped against Polly’s shoulder earlier and buries her face in it. “I have to write a book report,” she says as primly as she can, her voice muffled, but Polly just keeps laughing.

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On Saturday, her mother drives her to Greendale first thing in the morning for a costume fitting. Betty leans sleepily against the car door and watches the trees pass by in a blur of brown bark and white snow as they drive down the highway.

“What does Penny want you to work on today?” her mother asks from the front seat.

“Um,” Betty says. “Knee bends. And timing.”

“Hm,” her mother says. “You know your cues, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mom,” Betty says. She hears the music in her head every night when she’s trying to fall asleep.

It’s drizzling, and her mother flicks the windshield wipers on at their lowest speed. “Perhaps after this season we should be on a look out for a new partner,” she muses. “Even if we have to go closer to the city - ”

Betty perks up then, her eyelids no longer quite so heavy. “What?”

“We don’t want you to be held back, Elizabeth. Not when your momentum was so good last season.”

In her chest, Betty’s heart has started beating rapidly, like it does at the end of a routine while she’s trying to take big breaths and put her skate guards on and keep smiling all at once. “You don’t want me to skate with Jughead anymore?”

“I’m just not sure Penny was right when she said he’s the perfect match for you. He might be the best option in Riverdale, but there are so few boys at the club to begin with.”

“Mom, no,” Betty says. “No. Penny was right. Jughead’s a good partner for me. The best partner.”

When she looks up into the rearview mirror, Betty catches sight of her mother’s brow tilting upward. “The last few practices haven’t exactly been the best, honey.”

“I know,” Betty says quickly, almost desperately. “I _know_. But that’s not his fault. It’s my fault. I swear, Mom. I’ll work harder. I’ll work so much harder. But I don’t want to skate with anyone else.”

Her mother’s eyes flit upward, meeting Betty’s gaze in the mirror. “Alright,” she says slowly. “Let’s just see how your competition goes, hm?”

It’s not exactly the answer Betty wants, but they’re pulling into a parking space by the seamstress’ shop, and it’s better than the firm, unshakeable _your father and I know what’s best_ that she gets sometimes, so for the moment, she decides to take it.

Inside the shop, she puts on her costume behind a hanging curtain, and steps out so that the seamstress can do up the zipper and hook-and-eye closures on the back. Her dress is so beautiful that she can’t help but clasp her hands together with glee as she stands in front of the mirror. It’s white, the skirt soft and full of movement, flowing out around her hips when she twirls, and the torso is covered in rhinestones in swirling, floral designs.

“It’s so _beautiful_ ,” she breathes, and thinks, privately, to herself, _I’m so beautiful._

“It’s lovely,” her mother agrees, adjusting one of her sleeves, which twisted a little as Betty slipped into the dress.

“A lovely dress for a lovely girl,” the seamstress says pleasantly. “Are you excited for your competition?”

Betty nods. “And nervous, a little.”

The seamstress smiles at her. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully. Make sure to have fun, hm?”

Betty blinks at her, surprised by this piece of advice. Not knowing what else to do, she nods again.

Her mother is still inspecting her, examining the placement of rhinestones, fingering the hem of the skirt to be sure it won’t fray. She gives Betty’s belly a pat. “Breathe in,” she says, and Betty sucks in a breath and holds it, squeezing in her remaining abdominal baby fat to the best of her ability.

It’s only then, when Betty’s not breathing, that her mother finally nods in approval.

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From Greendale, they go straight to the rink. In the dressing room, Betty takes off her coat and her boots and does stretches on the floor while her mother scrapes bobby pins against her scalp, creating a perfect ballerina bun atop Betty’s head, and then douses her with hairspray. Betty makes a face when the taste gets in her mouth.

They’re a little bit early: it’s past ten-thirty, but her hour-long private practice with Jughead doesn’t start until eleven. One of the older girls is currently on the ice under Penny’s scrutinizing gaze, doing double axel after double axel. Betty’s mother helps her wiggle a pair of leg warmers on over her leggings, tells her to be good and to keep her muscles active until her session, and then leaves to perform her traditional Saturday task of interrupting the Sheriff's quiet mid-morning moment with a cup of coffee in order to try and squeeze information about crime rates out of him, wanting eye-catching statistics for Monday’s edition of the _Register_.

Betty bounces around a little by the boards, stretching out her arms and listening to the soothing sound of a blade cutting rhythmically into the ice, and is just about the return to the dressing room, where it’s a little bit warmer, when she catches sight of a familiar crown beanie on the other side of the rink.

She circles around and finds Jughead sitting in the first row of the stands, a faint expression of discomfort on his face as he slips his left skate on.

“Hey, Juggie,” she says as she sits down next to him, her voice sounding a bit more squeaky than usual.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re here early.”

“I had a fitting, before,” Betty explains. “You’re here early, too.”

“My mom had a shift. She dropped me off on the way.”

Betty nods. She doesn’t actually know what his mom does, other than that she has shifts at odd hours. She doesn’t know much about his family at all, really, besides the fact that his baby sister is super cute and his dad wears sort of a scary-looking leather jacket. Jughead knows exactly where she lives, but she doesn’t know which trailer in Sunnyside is his; he always accepts offers of rides to Archie’s, but declines when her parents offer to drive him home. She’s never asked him questions, though - it’s always been very obvious to her that he’ll volunteer that information, if and when he wants to.

“Do you think we’re ready?” she asks him. “For the competition?”

“I dunno,” he says, looking at his skates. “Lately, we kind of… suck.”

A laugh falls out of Betty’s mouth, brief but genuine. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, we do.”

She thinks of the arch of her mother’s brow in the rearview mirror that morning. She thinks of what her mom said about looking for another partner. She thinks about how that made her feel, like her heart was getting squished beneath her ribs.

They _can’t_ keep sucking. They need to be good again, and in order for that to matter, _she_ needs to be good again. She needs to stop being so nervous and just be comfortable around him again, like she learned to be, before.

“Jughead,” she says quietly. “Can I hold your hand?”

He doesn’t look at all surprised at the request. He doesn’t say _what, like a boyfriend?_ or make a face. He just holds his hand out, almost automatically, and when Betty sets her palm atop his, he curls her fingers around hers, and then their hands drop to rest against the bleacher in between their bodies.

Something about the way he holds her hand makes it feel natural, like it’s supposed to, like it used to before she messed up and pressed her lips against his, and Betty’s relieved to feel the heat that spikes in her cheeks fade away fairly quickly.

Something about the way he holds her hand and doesn’t ask her to explain herself prompts her to think, for the first time in her life, that Jughead just might understand her better than anyone else.

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The competition is two Saturdays later, in Syracuse. They have to leave early in the morning to make the drive, but Betty is wide awake even before her mother knocks on her door, her body buzzing with nerves.

At the arena, she changes into her costume and sits, trying to wiggle as little as possible, as her mother winds her hair into a bun and does her makeup. Polly, sitting at her side looking a touch bored, swipes the lipstick when their mother is done with it and applies it to her own lips, making kissy faces at a compact mirror.

It seems like she doesn’t see Jughead for a long time, and she feels a burst of relief when she finally spots him after leaving the dressing room. They get to go on the ice to warm up soon.

He’s wearing a suit, the jacket of which is a little too big, and he keeps tugging at the lapels self-consciously. When he sees her, though, he stops and says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Betty says breathlessly. The butterflies in her stomach are going crazy.

“You look nice,” he tells her, not quite meeting her eyes.

Betty reaches for his hand, seeking the familiarity of his grasp. “So do you.”

They skate their warm-up, and then wait about thirty-five minutes until they’re called back onto the ice. Coach Penny makes them do pliés and touch their toes and counts out their music while Betty and Jughead whisper the moves they’re supposed to be doing on every beat. Betty looks out into the stands and sees her mother’s unsmiling face, her eyes moving as she watches the couple currently on the ice. Earlier, her father had said _we love you no matter what happens_ but as Betty walked away from them, toward her beckoning coach, she heard her mother lament, _I hope they don’t come in last._

Betty hopes so, too, and in the end, her hopes materialize into reality, and then some. They hit every single move in their routine, waltzing in dance hold, creating a circular pattern on the ice. Their spin feels faster than it every has, wind brushing against Betty’s cheeks as she holds her skate to her head. Their single lift, in which Jughead lifts her up with his hands under her armpits and swings her around exactly one time, feels like it goes smoothly, the entry and exit done right on time. When they glide into their final pose, they both come to a complete stop, and though they do waver a _little_ bit, it’s so slight that Betty can’t be too disappointed in herself.

They win. They stand on top of the podium, even though it’s tall and Jughead sort of has to hop up and then yank her up after him. The teams on either side of them are taller, bigger, older - but they’re the ones with gold-coloured plastic ‘medals’ around their neck, they’re the ones standing where the winners get to stand. Next to her, Jughead smiles a great big smile, maybe the biggest smile she’s ever seen on his face, and Betty presses her shoulder against his upper arm. He bites his plastic medal, and giggles bubble up out of her, joyful and carefree.

She thinks about what Coach Penny said. _You could go to the Olympics._ Standing on top of that podium with Jughead, spotting pride in her mother’s smile, watching baby Jellybean clap her small, chubby hands together, Betty thinks, _Yes. Yes, we could._

 

 

to be continued.


	2. fourteen

_You made me forget myself_  
_I thought I was someone else,_  
_Someone good_

 

He’s sitting in the back of his freshman history class, but Jughead can’t focus.

It’s not because of the weather outside, which is what usually distracts him in this class, nor is it even because of the subject matter, though it’s true that the French Revolution isn’t exactly the most fascinating thing they’ve covered. No; instead of gazing out at the football field, thinking of the best way to transfer his ruminations on the futility of teenage life into what he hopes will one day be a real novel, Jughead is staring at the girl with the blonde ponytail sitting two seats up and one row over from him.

Betty.

Betty’s sweater is yellow today. Not a bright yellow like in Jellybean’s old drawings of the sun, nor a faded yellow like painted Easter eggs, but a darker, somewhat muted yellow, like mustard. It’s not one of her usual colours - she seems to live in a soft pastel world - and this sparks Jughead’s curiosity. It must be a gift, he thinks, probably from a grandmother or an aunt, because he knows Betty’s mom pretty well after all the years they’ve skated together and Alice is equally loyal to her daughter’s aesthetic as she is to her food intake.

The colour, though, isn’t the only thing that gives it away as a gift: it also fits a little poorly, as if it were purchased for the memory of her from a year prior, when her torso was shorter and her chest was flatter. Which it’s not anymore. Not that he’s noticed, or anything. He hasn’t been thinking about the swell of _them_ and the new curve of her hips every time that they have practice, hasn’t spent nights awake remembering the soft squishiness from the day that he accidentally grabbed her boob during a lift, and he _definitely_ hasn’t thought about any of it when he’s in the shower. No. He’s _evolved,_ unlike certain classmates of his like Reggie, who’d spent the last three weeks publicly trying to decide which girl in their grade had the best _décolletage._

Maybe he’ll ask her about the sweater later. They have practice anyway (ice-free this time, because they’re still learning new choreography for their short dance) and she doesn’t seem to mind when he asks her stuff. He often does it intentionally, actually, because he’d discovered years ago that repeating questions to her in a rapidfire fashion - however inane they might be - could always make her smile, and Jughead _likes_ to make Betty smile. She seems a little sad sometimes, when she thinks nobody’s looking, and it bothers him. He gets feeling sad - melancholy to him is like a hot bowl of soup on a cold winter’s day, by this point - but it’s so antithetical to how Betty is the rest of the time that he usually can’t shake the uneasy feeling for days after noticing. She’s the sun, fusing hydrogen and helium, always burning, and if she needs some more protons he’ll do what he has to in order to bring them to her, as long as it gets her to shine.

The bell rings, and Jughead slams his binder shut immediately. It’s the last period before lunch, so its end signals the beginning of food time, which is probably his favourite time of day. He’s always liked to eat - he’s a growing boy, after all - but ever since Coach Penny signed him up to do some targeted weight training in order to be able to execute more intricate lifts, he’s been practically ravenous. He makes a beeline for the cafeteria, unwilling to be even the second one in line - because it’s _burger day._

He layers his high, adding cheese to the patty and slipping on enough tomatoes, pickles, and lettuce until the height of it is almost too much to fit inside his mouth. _That’s how you know it’s a good burger,_ his dad used to say, and as Jughead plops down into the seat of an empty table in the middle of the cafeteria, he thinks, _this is a great one._

Right away, he begins to lather the accompanying fries in ketchup then mixes a little mayonnaise in for good measure. He inspects his handiwork - _acceptable_ , he decides - then picks up his burger and takes a big bite just as Betty and Archie slide in across from him. Archie has a matching burger to his, minus the sauce conglomeration on his fries, but Betty’s tray has a home-packed lunch on it that makes him feel truly sad: shredded chicken breast, a small helping of tzatziki sauce, half of a pita bread, and a big container of sliced bell peppers.

He wants desperately to make a comment - they are on drastically different diets, clearly - but he knows that food is a bit of a sore subject. He’d overheard her mother making a comment once about her stomach in a particular competition dress, and when Jughead had questioned Betty afterward, she’d grown defensive. She definitely eats, and he doesn’t think that she’s not getting adequate nutrition or anything - honestly, _he’s_ probably not, given that he mostly just eats burgers from Pop’s and store-brand ramen noodles - but it won’t kill her to have fries once in awhile.

(He also knows that if he doesn’t bring it up, Betty will steal a few of his; he’s left a small area of them unaffected by his sauce mixture specifically for this purpose.)

“You guys have practice again tonight?” Archie asks, glancing between him and Betty.

Jughead nods, his mouth still full of burger.

“Shit,” Archie comments. “It’s getting pretty intense, hey?”

Jughead swallows his food and glances at Betty; she looks back at him, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Archie shrugs. “Just that - I dunno! I guess I didn’t think when you guys started skating when we were eight that you’d still be doing it now.”

“Betty’s been skating a lot longer than that,” Jughead points out quickly, smiling at the quietly proud flush on Betty’s cheeks. “But yeah, I guess I - I probably didn’t think so either, but we keep winning stuff, and we’re getting pretty good.”

“Now is a pretty critical time,” Betty chimes in, politely smiling at Archie. “We’ve really gotta commit to training if we’re going to make a serious run at this.”

“A run?”

“You know,” Betty says, looking slightly embarrassed. “Worlds. Olympics, maybe. High-level competition.”

 _Olympics._ Even the word feels strange in Jughead’s mouth; it’s too unfamiliar to leave his lips. He hasn’t actually considered this very much, to be honest - Penny has taken them pretty far, but she’s still just an amateur coach in a small town whose main claim to fame is that she _used_ to be good at skating, and there’s not much more she can teach them. They have a moderate level of skating-only fame, within the small subsect of the population who is so dedicated to professional ice skating that they monitor and track the performance of up-and-coming pairs and ice dance teams, but they’re by no means anything special.

Yet, he should add. Some days, when he’s on the ice practicing twizzles with Betty and they hit their stride _just so,_ he thinks that they could be.

Not that he’s in it for the fame. No; Jughead couldn’t care less about that. In fact, it’s probably a negative point about all this, if not for the fact that it comes with endorsements. And _endorsements_ is what Jughead wants; they can pay for college. Maybe for Jellybean, too, if he tries hard enough. Maybe move into a bigger trailer, one with more bedrooms so that his mom and Jellybean will come home from Toledo.

(“Just a week, Jughead,” his mother had said, eleven weeks ago.)

“Yeah,” Jughead agrees, shoveling some fries into his mouth. “It’s now or never.”

Betty steals a fry.

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After school, Jughead hauls his backpack and aging laptop to Pop’s so that he can get some work done on an English paper due next week before he has to go to practice with Betty. Their choreographer is in Greendale, so Betty’s mom is going to pick him up from the diner on her way to take Betty as well. Later, when they’re on the way home, he’ll get her to drop him off here, too. There are no secrets about where he lives, exactly - Betty’s even been to the trailer by now, as a byproduct of being his skating partner and best friend for six years - but Alice tends to get judgmental whenever the topic of the south side comes up, and Jughead doesn’t want to deal with it today. He can walk home from Pop’s, maybe with a post-practice milkshake in hand, and thus avoid any hearing any heavy sighs and seeing the pointed looks Alice gives Betty, her eyes flicking to whichever one of Jughead’s teenage neighbours is out in front of their trailer.

Betty herself doesn’t care at all about his lower-class status, Jughead knows. She’s defended him and the south side to her mother in front of him enough for him to know that she definitely does so when he’s not around, too. He appreciates it, obviously, but that doesn’t mean that she _gets it,_ not _really_. She can’t truly understand the vague shame he feels about his station, or the conflicting pride that he wants to have in it at the same time. Like Archie’s, the house she lives in is big and beautiful and warmly rich with obvious care and attention. Her parents have a tense relationship, that much is clear to everyone in town, but they’re still together. Hell, she has an en suite bathroom in her bedroom. He doesn’t even _have_ a bedroom.

Despite their differences, Jughead still goes to the north side school and hangs out with the north side kids. The kinship he’d had with any of the south side neighbour kids in his trailer park has faded through the years, especially recently as most of the boys have become members of the Serpent gang that controls his side of town. They doesn’t say hi anymore, but he’s also not enemy number one like Jughead knows most of his Riverdale High peers are; he walks a fine, odd line, but it’s the one he’s straddled for most of his life and in that way, it’s eerily comfortable.

The door chimes, and Jughead looks up from his black coffee and _Animal Farm_ musings to see Toni Topaz walk into the diner. She still lives a couple trailers away from him with her grandfather, but like the others she’s mostly faded into the background of his life. Or at least she _did,_ until she dyed her hair pink, stopped wearing whole shirts, and became instantly the most noticeable person in his neighbourhood. Her hair makes her stand out against the faded neon-mint and dull monochromatic ambience of Sunnyside, and the main reason that the rest of her isn’t competing for space in his otherwise Betty-filled late-night hormonal musings is because he’s honestly kind of scared of her. She’s self-confident in a way that Jughead’s unfamiliar with and she walks with an intimidating purpose. Her grandfather is a widely respected elder on the south side. And she rides a motorcycle, a full two years before it’s even legal for her to do so.

Toni orders a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream at the counter. Jughead watches the toe of her heeled boot tap impatiently on the tile floor of Pop’s as she waits. There’s an attitude about her that reminds him a little bit of the early sassiness that his little sister is starting to display; if she grows up on the south side, too, Jughead wonders if she’ll be more like Toni than Betty.

 _Although,_ he thinks, it’s starting to look less and less like Jellybean is actually ever coming back to Riverdale, let alone the south side, so perhaps his rumination is over a moot point. He can’t tell if it’s for the best: clearly, whatever’s happening in the Jones household is not good for Jellybean - it never has been, but until very recently she’s been too little to really notice. She deserves the best chance. At the same time, he _misses_ her. Despite the age gap, they’ve always had a bond; he loves Jellybean to his core.

His mother is something else altogether; Jughead can sense his own resentment about being left out of what is starting to look like her escape plan growing already. The only thing that has stopped him from unleashing full-out rage on her is the possibility of losing touch with Jellybean. He will _not_ let that happen.

Then, Jughead remembers that Toni’s parents are gone, too. He wonders if she has any siblings.

Suddenly, the rounded toe of her boot turns to point toward him. His eyes flick up to realize that she’s looking at him. Her lips curve upward slightly and she steps toward his table, milkshake now in hand.

“Hey, Jones,” she greets. “Can I sit?”

Jughead reaches over and pulls a pile of papers toward him to clear a small space on the table. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Toni slides in across from him and gestures to the messy table. “Homework?” she guesses.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, as if to say _yeah, obviously,_ then answers, “Got a couple hours free, so I’m trying to get some work done.”

“You keep a busy schedule,” she comments, pushing herself back to the wall of the diner. She leans against it and stretches her short legs out on the bench.

Jughead furrows his brow slightly. They’re neighbours, so it’s not a surprise that she’s seen him coming and going, but still. “Didn’t know you were keeping track of me,” he replies, lowering his eyes to his notes again.

“Not tracking. Just assuming.” Toni shrugs. “Who else would be cutting behind my trailer at five-thirty in the morning except for the south side’s own Brian Boitano?”

Jughead stares at her, wordless for a moment. How could she -

“You walk heavily,” she explains, toying with the straw of her milkshake. “You always have.” He must be looking at her with some mixture of concern and surprise on his face, because Toni laughs and flicks a cherry pit at him. “Relax, Jones, I’m observant, not a stalker. Everyone has distinct footsteps. Some people even have moods to their footsteps; I learned to recognize them. You know how it is.”

His eyes dart away again. _Yeah._ He knows how it is.

“Plus, I know the shortcut to the rink starts out behind my grandpa’s trailer,” she continues, the straw making an audible slurping noise. “That’s where you’re going, right? At five-thirty in the morning?”

Jughead hesitates before answering. It’s not a secret, obviously - the whole town knows he skates with Betty, and besides, Coach Penny is _from_ the south side, too - but it’s not exactly _cool,_ and he’s not really trying to get beat up or anything. That happens enough on the north side.

In the end, there’s nothing to say but the truth. “Yeah, most mornings start at the rink.”

“You practice a lot,” she comments. It doesn’t sound like an accusation, but he feels the sting anyway.

“I’m committed.”

“I’ve noticed.” She grins at him and threads the straw through her fingertips. “You ever have free time?”

Jughead thinks about what Betty had said earlier, and about how they need to start taking their training seriously - even more seriously than five mornings a week at the rink, six hours on the weekends and three evenings with choreographers and other gymnastics training, apparently. “No.”

Toni’s eyebrow arches. Her hand closes around her drink and she pulls it toward her as she begins to slide out of the booth. “Shame,” she comments. “It’d be nice to see you around.” She stands up and starts to walk away, but she stops after a footstep and then turns back around, adding, “Let me know if your ice princess ever gives you a day off.”

That comment catches Jughead off guard; as far as he knows, Toni’s never even met Betty, and he has no idea what she would have to do with how busy he is apart from the fact that when he’s at the rink, or the studio, or the gym, he’s almost always there _with_ Betty. But that’s just how it is, and how it’s been for years: they’re partners.

Out loud, he stammers, “Uh, okay,” then watches Toni leave the diner and saunter around the corner to where the sidewalk ends and the toe-stubbed dirt path to Sunnyside begins. She’s nicer than Jughead remembers, but definitely just as intimidating.

_Girls._

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One week and four days after she approaches Jughead at Pop’s, Toni kisses him.

He’s sitting outside her trailer when she does it, with his elbows digging into his knees and her foot resting on the step below the one he’s using as a seat. His mom has just called to tell him that Jellybean is starting school in Toledo, which confirms what he’d feared for weeks: they won’t be coming back. Ordinarily, Jughead doesn’t go to _anyone_ to talk, or even for advice; he’s emotionally self-reliant, a quality borne out of necessity, and prefers to brood rather than to share. Even if there ever was a situation where he was to seek comfort from somebody, he always figured that that person would probably be Betty. He spends more time with her than anyone else, because they’re not just partners but friends, too. And she’s kind-hearted and sweet, the exact kind of person that he probably _could_ open up to, if he were so inclined.

At least, that’s what he’d thought _before,_ when everything was a hypothetical. But today, when he gets the call from his mom, things are different. It’s a Saturday, and they’ve just finished up with Penny at the rink when her sister pulls up in a car that Jughead doesn’t recognize as belonging to either of their parents. _His_ parents never come to see him at practice, ever, but hers are almost always there, particularly Alice, and through the years he's come to easily recognize their vehicles.

(His father has only even been to the rink with him once before, to deliver him to Penny. “Here you go,” Jughead remembers his father saying gruffly, pushing at his son’s shoulder gently. “Like we talked about.”)

Today had been one of the rare days when Betty, too, had been chaperone-less at practice. It’s her older sister’s sixteenth birthday, and her parents had apparently been with Polly for some kind of surprise. The absence of either of the adult Coopers (particularly Alice) had been kind of nice, Jughead thought; Betty had an ease about her smile that she typically doesn’t have whenever her parents are around, and they’d skated well. Their on-ice connection is strengthening - they can both feel it, he knows - and it’s at the point where even Coach Penny had commented on it.

They’d left the rink together, her stuff tucked neatly into the skating bag under her arm, his skates tied together by their laces and hanging over his shoulder like usual. Betty had been in the middle of good-naturedly teasing Jughead about a slight misstep he’d made at the very beginning of their routine when Polly’s arrival had interrupted her.

 _“Betty!”_ Polly’d screeched, “look! Mom and Dad got me a _car!_ Get in, I can’t wait to drive you home!”

Betty’s jaw had dropped, as had his; she’d then approached her sister’s new car with excitement and happiness in her eyes, immediately asking several questions and touching the pretty minty blue paint. Jughead had drawn his lower lip between his teeth and then released it slowly, patiently, until he’d realized that this wasn’t just a joyous Cooper family moment, but a whole _thing._ Polly turned sixteen and got a car. Betty probably will, too. His birthday is in just under two weeks, and he’ll be lucky if his dad even remembers what day it is.

Jughead had given a half-hearted wave and then slunk away, cutting across the field with the dying early-autumn grass beneath his feet on the way home. And on the way, his phone had rang.

The conversation was strangely short. He’d always figured that if this ever happened, it would at least take a long time, but it doesn’t. It took years for the cracks to form, but it only takes seconds for the pieces to break apart.

After, his hand had flexed on his cell phone, fingers tempted to call Betty or even Archie to talk about it. But he _knows_ she’s busy right now, and neither of them would get it anyway. So instead, he’d just kept walking toward Sunnyside, where a beacon of pink hair flashed outside of one of the trailers.

He’d decided to stop in on a whim, not wanting to go home and deal with whatever state his dad might be in, and tells Toni what’s happened. She didn't say much, but she’d listened, and when he’d finished talking she’d told him that he’d be okay. She’s been through it, so he’d believed her - still believes her - and when he offered a small smile of relief as a means of thanks, she’d leaned down from her half-standing position and kissed him.

It doesn’t last long but it’s warm, his first kiss since eight-year-old Betty Cooper had planted one on him in the school hallway, and it’s nice.

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The next day, Toni asks him if he wants to go for a ride on her motorcycle, and he says yes.

At the end of the week, she calls him her boyfriend in front of Fangs Fogarty.

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When he tells Archie about Toni, he gets a friendly punch on the shoulder and an “alright, man!”, followed almost immediately by the question, “What did Betty say when you told her?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” Jughead shrugs, picking up the spare controller for Archie’s Xbox. “How come?”

Archie gives him a puzzled look, like it’s insane that he’s even asked why, and raises both of his eyebrows. “Because you guys are … you guys. Y’know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Jughead replies.

“You’re _you,”_ Archie says impatiently, like it’s supposed to be self-explanatory.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Everyone thinks you like her, bro.” Archie shakes his head a little, as if to say _where have you been,_ and adds, “Everyone thinks she likes you too, by the way. You always give her this _look_ when you’re skating, and she -”

“It’s a performance,” Jughead cuts in, irritated. “We’re telling a story, and all that shit. It's supposed to look like I like her.”

“I get it,” Archie says, in a tone that clearly communicates that he doesn’t at all. “Just saying. That’s why I - why people will wonder.”

Jughead frowns and starts the game, vaguely annoyed by both Archie’s line of questioning and by the weird sinking feeling in his stomach. _Betty._ He hadn’t thought about - and now that he _was_ -

She’ll be fine with it, he decides. They’re friends. She’ll be happy for him.

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She’s not.

Jughead finds that out two days later when they're at their choreographer’s studio in Greendale, trying to perfect one of the lifts for the new routine that they're debuting in a couple of weeks’ time. Things are mostly smooth with their free dance except for the final lift, which Coach Penny says “lacks passion” and makes them look awkward and inexperienced.

Jughead's not exactly sure what makes Penny such an expert on passion. She's in her late thirties, with a somewhat felonious ex-husband that Jughead's pretty sure still lives in the garage of the rundown house she inherited from her mother on the tattered southern edges of Riverdale. He's been to the Wyrm looking for his dad enough times to have seen her drinking alone at the bar more than once. Nothing about her existence screams “passion” to Jughead, either.

Still, she's their coach, and if she wants to send them to the choreographer’s then she can. He gets a ride to Greendale on the back of Toni’s bike instead of tagging along with Betty and her mom, but they're already inside the studio when he arrives so he doesn't get a chance to introduce Toni to Betty. She's going to visit a friend of hers in town while he’s at practice, then he's got elaborate plans to impress her with the purchase of a shared milkshake at Pop's.

Betty is stretching when he walks in. Her pointed left foot is resting on a barre and her chest is nearly flush against her knee. She smiles when she sees him and stands up, then switches legs.

“Hey. I just got here.”

“Cool.” Jughead drops his backpack in the corner and sheds his jacket. “Hey, Lawrence.” He nods a hello to their choreographer, who’s leaning over the stereo in the corner, then bends over to change his shoes. “Polly drive you here in her new car?”

“No, Mom did.” She raises her arms above her head, clasps her hands, and leans one side down to join her leg in a deep stretch. “Please tell me you didn't take the bus or something. We could have driven you like usual!”

Jughead shakes his head and starts to stretch as well. “Uh, no.” He's not quite sure how to tell her, but he knows that he has to. He hadn't even been nervous to do this until Archie had gotten inside his head. He mentally curses his friend - things are dire if _Archie_ is making hard-hitting points - then bends down and, with his head near his knees, says, “Toni brought me.”

Betty removes her leg from the barre and bends over in front of him. He tries to avert his eyes from her ass but fails, only managing to salvage the situation when her face appears upside down between her legs and she wrinkles her nose at him in confusion. “Who's Toni?”

“Topaz. She lives near me, goes to Southside. Um. I think we started dating last week.”

Betty stands up so quickly that it disorients even him, too. _“What?!”_

Jughead offers a sheepish half-smile. “Yeah, sorry, I was gonna tell you before. Anyway, she's cool. You can meet her when she picks me up.”

Betty is turned away now, busy digging in her bag for something. “Oh,” she squeaks, lifting a headband out of her usually-organized gear and then setting it to the side as she seemingly continues in search of something else. “So she's a bit older than you, then?”

“Few months, maybe,” Jughead answers slowly, trying to decide whether Betty's okay. Her actions are all rigid and jerky suddenly, very unlike her usual graceful movements, and there are a few strands of hair that have escaped from her bun. Alice isn’t here today - she usually runs errands in Greendale whenever they have to make the trip - so the stray hair just hangs there, wispy and homeless, instead of being hastily pinned back up. Jughead likes it; it makes Betty a bit more accessible, less like her mother and more like herself.

Betty whirls around at his answer. Whatever she needed from her bag, Jughead assumes she didn’t find it, because she’s empty handed. He might have a spare of whatever it is, unless it’s bra or hair-related. “She's not sixteen?” Betty asks, her face a little flushed. “How is she driving a car? She has a learner's permit already? Was her mom there?”

Jughead sighs and rolls his shoulders back. In the corner of his eye, he sees Lawrence turn toward them, a sign that practice is about to begin. “She rides a motorcycle, okay?” he says to Betty in a low voice. “It's her grandpa's. She's a great rider.”

“A _motorcycle?!”_ Betty repeats. “Are you crazy? What if you get hurt?”

“I won't,” he assures her, walking to take his place near the centre of the room. “Don't worry.”

“Don't worry.” She scoffs. “How can I not worry? One fall and you -”

“Miss Cooper,” Lawrence interrupts, spinning on his heel to face them from the front of the room. There’s an authoritative expression on his face that tells them both explicitly that the studio is a kingdom, and he is now holding court. “Care to join us?”

Betty hurries to the centre of the room. “Sorry,” she apologizes. To Jughead, she quietly hisses, “This isn't over! We need to talk about this,” then takes her starting position.

Jughead raises an eyebrow at her but doesn't reply. He's not sure why she's reacting this way; she'd like Toni, if she gave her a chance. Maybe Archie wasn't too off base after all - _obviously,_ Betty doesn’t _like_ him, but they are essentially inseparable and he wouldn’t be too shocked if it’s created an expectation of some kind of pseudo-togetherness. He tries to catch Betty's eye, hoping to wordlessly communicate a sort of compromised apology or a calming “it's fine”, but she's avoiding eye contact.

They start with warmups, which goes well, but when Lawrence makes them do an off-ice run of their troublesome lift, things fall apart. Betty won't relax when he picks her up, and what's supposed to be a softly bended knee is instead a rigidly held one, so their turn and half-spin is off even more than it should be, when accounting for no ice.

“Ugh, stop.” Lawrence flicks his hand at them, shaking his head, and Jughead sets Betty down. Her head is tucked downward with the criticism and Jughead feels instantly bad, even though he’s not sure he did anything wrong.

He raises his hand to touch her back in what he intends to be a comforting gesture, but she steps away before he can, so he drops his hand listlessly by his side.

“Miss Cooper, you must trust him,” Lawrence directs, waving his hand at her. “Soften the leg, the hip, the arm. He lifts you and you are part of him now, one body, one goal. Okay? Again.”

Betty nods, her face red, and they try again.

It takes longer than it should, but after two hours of micro-adjustments and somewhat aggressive direction from Lawrence, the physical movement in their lift becomes smoother than it has been. They have a smaller-scale state performance in Rochester in a week, just before Jughead’s birthday. It will be the first time that their adjusted routine is debuted, and it needs to go well. Their main state rivals are based in Buffalo, and while the performance is purely for exhibition, the competitive aspect is never quite gone if they’re around. Jughead doesn’t want to drop the ball; things are finally starting to move for them, there are a couple of interviews lined up and he knows that the next thing to come after that is a low level of sponsorship. It’s the first real step in his plan for college, to take this thing he was made to start doing at eight years old and turn it into a future for himself and his sister, and no _lift_ is going to ruin that.

Jughead’s not sure if the passion that Penny had complained about is really there, but he feels closer to Betty when practice ends, and the earlier tension has disappeared, so that has to count for something. The muscles in her back aren’t tense when he holds her, and their regular post-routine hug feels normal. She even smiles when he realizes he’s forgotten his water bottle and hands him one of her spares.

“Thanks,” he says, downing most of the contents. He moves to hand it back to Betty, who shakes her head.

“Keep it.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek awkwardly. “I don’t have room in my backpack, and there isn’t - I kind of need to hold on when I’m on Toni’s bike.”

Betty stares at him, her smile fading. “My mom can drive you back.”

It doesn’t really feel like an offer. It feels like a direction, like she might as well have just said “my mom _will_ drive you back”, for all the difference it’d make.

Jughead swallows, not sure what to say so that nobody is mad at him. Either way, it feels like he’ll lose. “Toni’s probably already waiting downstairs. Next week, though -”

Betty blinks hard. He realizes in a moment of horror that she’s trying not to cry, and it nearly makes him well up, too. Her voice is a soft whisper, but the anger in her tone is indisputable all the same. “I had to stop _outdoor cycling_ on my road bike because of the risk of injury, Jug. All it takes is a split second and you, your legs - you could be injured - or _worse_ \- and you’re still going to go down there and get on that motorcycle?”

His phone buzzes in his pocket, likely a message from Toni announcing her arrival. He watches as a tear slips out of Betty’s eye, which she quickly swipes away. He closes his eyes briefly against the sight. “She’s here already, Betty.”

Another tear falls, but this time Betty doesn’t bother trying to clear it from her cheek. “What about us?”

Jughead frowns, confused. “Us?”

“Yeah.” Betty throws her hands up, indicating around the room, then drops them. “Us. This. Everything we’ve worked for. You’re willing to just _risk_ that without a thought as to how it affects me?”

“Wait, hold up.” Jughead crosses his arms. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to run my girlfriends by you.”

Her jaw drops. “It’s not about that! I don’t care who you date - you could be dating _Kevin_ and it wouldn’t bother me. What I _care_ about is that you apparently have no respect for our skating, for our -” she stops, her voice breaking, and has to clear her throat before she can continue. “I thought there were two people in this partnership, Jughead, but apparently I’m out on that ice alone.”

Betty stands in front of him, vibrating in anger, seemingly waiting for him to speak, but he says nothing in response. He’s not sure _what_ , if anything, would be the right thing.

After a few moments of thunderous silence, during which time Lawrence rolls his eyes at them and steps out of the studio, Betty opens her mouth again. Jughead braces to be yelled at, but when all that comes out is a strangled sob, she turns away quickly and runs out of the room, grabbing her bag on the way.

“Betty, wait!” Jughead hurries after her, hoping to catch her before she’s through the elevator doors, but he’s too late. They close around her crumpled face and fisted hands, leaving Jughead standing with her water bottle still in his hand.

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He tries to put their fight out of his head and focus on hanging out with Toni once they get to Pop’s, but the image of Betty’s tear-stained cheeks is never anything that Jughead can forget easily, and especially not now that he’s the cause of it. He ends up telling Toni that he’s tired so that their night ends early. He’s lying, badly, but it doesn’t even bother him that she can clearly tell.

Jughead texts Betty later, once he gets back to the trailer. He eats an evening snack - popcorn - then takes one of Jellybean’s forgotten stuffed animals to bed with him while he waits for her reply.

When he wakes the next morning, he’s still clutching his phone. There are no messages.

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Over the next week, Betty speaks to him only when required: during class, about homework; at the rink, when their on-ice communication needs to be verbal; and on the Friday before they’re set to leave to Rochester, to confirm travel arrangements. He’s going to be riding up with Betty and her parents, and staying overnight in a hotel room with her father since his has to work and cannot accompany him as a chaperone.

(That is, at least, what he’s told them. In truth, his father had initially committed to attending - not a surprise, as the intention is at least usually there - but he’s been on a bit of a bender since Thursday evening, making his weekend presence unlikely - also not a surprise. On Friday, Jughead makes alternate plans with Hal, having laid the groundwork for this likely outcome weeks prior when he’d introduced a “potential work conflict” for his father.)

“We’ll pick you up at six-fifteen tomorrow morning,” Betty tells him after history class. “Unless you have _another_ way up.”

Jughead softens his expression at her words, because even though they’re biting, her eyes are clearly still pained. “Betts -”

“Don’t,” Betty interrupts, grabbing her textbooks from her desktop. She turns as if to leave, but one step into it she spins back around with a heavy sigh. “Look, Jug, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t want to fight, and I … I’m happy for you, about Toni. If you’re happy.” Her eyes are wide and honest, albeit a bit sad: an open book, always.

He shifts his weight to his other foot. “Thanks, Betty.”

“I still think the motorcycle is a huge risk,” she continues. “And I still think it’s disrespectful for you to risk our careers for the thrill. I can’t do this _without_ you, you know.”

Jughead looks at her, his voice quiet. “I know.”

Betty tilts her head, as if she wants to say something else further on that but has chosen not to. “I want to have a good skate on Saturday, so I’m going to try to put it behind me for now,” she says. Then, with a smile, she adds, “And I don’t want to be mad at you on your birthday.”

That makes him smile, too. “You remembered.”

“You think I’d forget?” she laughs. “I already made you birthday cookies for Sunday on the drive home.”

A warm swell rises in Jughead’s chest. Of course she did. “Betty -”

“Even if your parents forget your birthday,” Betty interrupts, “I won’t.”

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At 5:45 the next morning, Jughead gets up, showers, and gets dressed in a pair of loose-fitting athletic pants and a pullover sweater. They feel like pajamas, almost too comfortable for someone who regularly falls asleep in jeans and a t-shirt, but it’ll be nice for napping on the hour and a half-long drive to Rochester. He shoves his worn beanie over his wet hair, sure that he’ll get shit from Penny later about its appearance during their performance, and slings his heavy bag over his shoulder.

He steps out of the trailer once he’s sure he has everything that he needs, and makes it two steps away when a dark figure, hunched and swaying slightly, approaches him. Jughead can tell by the awkward steps that it’s his father, making his way home after god-knows-what. He should have disappointment in his eyes, Jughead thinks, or at least there should be _something_ heavy in his heart, but he feels nothing.

 _As expected,_ he thinks, and continues on without stopping to talk to him.

When he passes by Toni’s trailer, a soft “psst” noise makes him stop. A dull light goes on, and Toni’s face appears in the corner bedroom window. “Jug.”

Jughead drops his bag on the ground and steps toward the open screen. “Hey,” he whispers. “What are you doing up?”

Toni shrugs. “Was up texting people, then I figured you’d be leaving soon, so I stayed up. Good luck today.”

“Thanks,” he answers, pressing the pads of his fingers into the screen against her nose. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

The unexpected honk of a car horn makes Jughead jump. He looks toward the entrance and sees the Coopers’ sedan waiting, headlights illuminating part of the park. He should hurry, he thinks; it’ll give Alice a little less time than usual to judge him.

“That the ice princess?” Toni guesses. “You ever not at her beck and call?”

Jughead frowns slightly, not sure what that means. He clears it from his head a moment later; there’s no time to unpack it now. “Gotta go,” he whispers. “Thanks for waiting up.” He waves, grabs his bag from the ground, then runs toward Betty’s parents’ car.

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They make it to Rochester in good time, drop their stuff at the hotel, then get their gear on and head to the rink. There’s a few warm-up laps, during which they hold hands as usual - it’s important to get their movements in sync, Penny always tells them, or they can’t be any kind of ice dancers worth watching.

“Was Jellybean sad to see you go to Rochester?” Betty asks, when they’re on the third lap. She’s babysat for her a couple of times - never _at_ the trailer, but at the playground and the rink - and Jughead knows she has a soft spot for his little sister.

“Um.” Jughead takes a deep breath, about to answer with the truth, then exhales and abandons the plan. Now is not the time. “Yeah.”

“Aww. Her big brother will be back before she knows it.” Betty smiles and squeezes his hand. “I bet she’ll be ready with a big birthday hug.”

Jughead swallows, his throat feeling oddly tight now. “Yeah, maybe.” He looks away, eyes scanning just past the boards, and spots Penny waving to them. “Penny wants to see us,” he says, and pulls Betty toward the other side.

They skate up to the door and step through, taking their skate guards from Alice. Penny grasps his wrist and tugs him, Betty in tow, over to the bench where a woman and a man Jughead doesn’t recognize are waiting. “You guys have an interview,” she says. “They’re from - sorry, where are you from?”

 _“New York Skating Online,”_ the woman answers. “I’m Rebecca. This is Peter. Good to meet you, Forsythe.”

“Jughead,” he corrects automatically. “Nobody calls me that.”

“Sure, Jughead,” Rebecca says. “And you must be Elizabeth.”

“Betty, please,” she says in a much more measured tone, smiling politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Peter replies. “We’re doing a feature on the under-sixteens. We were hoping we could ask you guys a couple of questions, get a feel for your team dynamic, add a little colour to the article.”

Jughead shrugs his approval and Betty nods hers, her hands crossed primly over her lap. “Of course.”

“So, you two have been skating together for quite a while already,” Rebecca begins. “Six years.”

“Nearly seven,” Jughead puts in. “Betty got stuck with me early.”

Betty reaches out and touches his wrist. “Jug,” she chides. “That’s not - I got lucky early,” she corrects, smiling. “He’s a great partner.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “I paid her to say that.”

Rebecca smiles at them. “You guys seem to get along pretty well,” she observes.

Betty nods. “Yeah. I mean, we were friends before we even skated together, so it was an easy transition to make a connection on ice.”

“Any romantic history here?” Rebecca teases, tapping her pencil against her knee. “You know there are rumours in the blog-osphere.”

Jughead raises both of his eyebrows. “There are?!”

Peter nods. “Skating fans are ardent admirers of you two specifically,” he informs them. “So, any truth to those rumours?”

“No!” Betty sputters, her eyes wide and anxious. “He’s like my _brother.”_

Jughead’s stomach flips in a very unpleasant way at those words. _Like my brother._ He hates that so, _so_ much, more than he can explain without really understanding why he feels that way. His stomach begins to feel slightly nauseous, so he says little for the rest of the interview and tries instead to focus on their upcoming routine.

They’re _not_ romantic, that’s true, but - _god,_ she is definitely _not_ like a sister.

When the interview ends, Betty politely shakes their hands and then turns back to walk toward the ice again. His eyes are drawn to her legs, long and lean beneath the short skirt of her costume.

Not like a sister at _all_.

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Jughead keeps that in mind when they step on the ice. _Like my brother,_ is his mental refrain; _he’s like my brother._ He wonders if he’s like a brother when he stares at her longingly, when his hands brush high on her ribcage, or when his palm flattens against the inside of her thigh. He wonders how brotherly _that_ is for her. He increases the natural tension that he feels in his chest and threads it through his fingertips, onto her waist, _into_ her skin, feeling spiteful and impassioned and confused all at the same time.

Their performance goes well, but Betty seems irked at him when it’s over. It’s not in what she says, or even in how she says it, but she pulls away more quickly than she typically does after performances and when they skate off the ice, they do it separately.

Later, after they’ve had a few shorter post-skate interviews and are on their way to change out of their costumes, Jughead touches her hand. “Betty, are you okay?” he asks.

She stops and looks at him. “Yes,” she says, sounding slightly strained. “How come?”

“Nothing, I just - you seem off.” He places a hand on her shoulder, his thumb stroking over the sleeve of her costume.

“Well, I’m fine,” she informs him rather brusquely, then disappears into the women’s locker room with her mother following behind.

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She still gives him birthday cookies the next morning, but Betty’s a little more subdued than usual. She must be tired, he tells himself; they’ve been practicing a lot.

And then, when they’re back to Riverdale and he’s dropped off at the front of the park, Jughead spots Toni waiting on the front step of his parents’ trailer.

“Hey,” she says, standing up when he gets closer, his bag making a steady _whack-whack_ noise against his thigh. “We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

Everything in Betty’s life is regimented with precision. If she’s not at the rink, or at school, she’s at the local gym walking in a line of lunges as their trainer looks on, or driving in to New York City every second Friday for a three-hour private ballet lesson meant to improve her lines and teach her how to use her body effectively when she’s being lifted, or accompanying her mother to quarterly meetings with her dietitian, or on her way to a costume fitting, or an appointment to have her eyebrows threaded, or to see a massage therapist to have the tension worked out of her muscles. If she’s not doing any of those things, she’s supposed to be sleeping, exactly eight-point-five hours per night. She doesn’t have room in her life for curveballs; there’s simply no _space_. There is no space for Jughead’s abruptly-acquired motorcycle-riding girlfriend who, from a cursory check of her social media, appears to somehow manage to make bright pink hair look intimidating and amazing, and who is _tiny_ , perfectly slender in all the ways Betty - who seems to be perpetually five pounds too heavy - wishes she was, all the ways a figure skater _should_ be. There is no room in Betty’s life for Toni Topaz and everything she brings, and there’s no room for the way Jughead was _touching_ her on the ice in Rochester, like she, Betty Cooper, five-pounds-too-heavy Betty Cooper, Betty Cooper whose appearance is apparently so fricking _virginal_ that Archie’s face turned the same colour as his hair the one time she walked into a conversation in which he was monologuing about how great one of their teachers’ boobs are - like she, Betty Cooper, is _sexy._

She doesn’t know what it means, Jughead’s hand gliding slow and low over her back as he steered them both into deep edges as they curved across the ice, his fingers curling unnecessarily around the nape of her neck, digging into her skin as he dipped her, his forehead pressing tight to hers for an instant when the choreography didn’t demand it. She’s terrified that this new intensity of his, this new way of touching her, means he’s having sex with Toni. She’s terrified that he believes she really meant what she said in that damn interview.

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Late on Sunday, when she’s supposed to be getting her eight-point-five hours of sleep, Betty nestles into her blankets and pillows, the only light in the room emanating from her laptop, and reads the article exactly six times.

Rebecca and Peter write that they have a “solid dynamic,” one that is “playful, but also supportive.” They say that Jughead has “sardonic humour beyond his years” and that Betty has “maturity and grace;” they write that Betty and Jughead are “well-equipped to handle the pressure they’re under, all the eyes that are watching them, and perhaps, one day, the hopes of the nation,” and everything would be good, everything would be great, if the blurb on them just ended there, but it doesn’t.

 _They are impressive individuals_ , Rebecca and Peter write, _and they compose two halves of an even more impressive partnership. The steadiness with which they handle themselves, and the trust with which they look at each other, demonstrates that they’re well-equipped to handle the pressure they’re under, all the eyes that are watching them, and perhaps, one day, the hopes of the nation. As skaters, their composure never falters - but when we ask about things off the ice, we’re reminded that beneath all that talent they’re bursting with, they’re only fourteen years old. The suggestion that things might be romantic between them is the only thing that ties Elizabeth Cooper’s tongue, and we’re sorry to disappoint, skating fans, but Cooper was quick to shut down the speculation, even as she blushed - she says that partner Jones is like a brother to her. There might not be a fairytale here, but watching these two perform sure makes us think that their story will be one for the history books._

Every time she reads those words, Betty winces, her nose scrunching up. She didn’t mean to say what she did. No one has ever asked her if she’s dating Jughead before, or if she likes him _like that_ \- at least not since they were little kids - but under normal circumstances, she’d be able to handle that question. She’d be able to handle herself. But this whole thing with Jughead and his new girlfriend and her illegal motorcycle riding has been weighing on her heavily, throwing her off her game and making her feel strangely raw, and what Rebecca and Peter wrote is true - she completely lost her composure.

She hadn’t meant what she said. She’s just been angry with Jughead lately, angry at him for making decisions and failing to take their career into account, the career they’ve worked so hard for. She’s been angry with him for not thinking about _her_ , about his partner. Their partnership and their shared goals are her number one priority. She didn’t even have cake on Polly’s birthday, because it wasn’t in her meal plan - _that’s_ how committed she is to them. To him. She was so _hurt_ , hurt like a punch to the gut, hurt like being stabbed in the heart, by how he’d just hopped on a notoriously injury-causing machine without giving them any thought. Without giving _her_ any thought. And all while she eyed a perfectly frosted bundt cake longingly and chose Jughead and their future together over the momentarily bliss of sugar on her tongue.

She was hurt, and she’d wanted to hurt him in return, somehow. She wanted to be just as dismissive of what they mean to each other. What she said, she rationalized afterward, wasn’t _nearly_ as bad as risking injury on the back of a motorcycle.

But still: she didn’t mean it. She only has a sister, but Betty doesn’t need a brother to know that the partnership she shares with Jughead - the _relationship_ she shares with Jughead, if she’s being honest - is not sibling-like. Not at all.

In her quiet home on her quiet street, Betty holds her breath and does a little Googling, Rebecca’s words about the “blog-osphere” still rattling around in her head, refusing to let her sleep. It turns out that Rebecca is right: there are some people out there who think she and Jughead should be a couple, or who think they _are_ a couple. Betty stumbles into a forum and encounters pictures of the two of them captioned _omg so cute!!_ and _look at themmm_. There’s a photo of them in the kiss-and-cry from the last U.S. championships, when they came second in junior ice dance; Jughead is leaning in close to talk into her ear, his hand on her back, and Betty’s own hand is on his knee. She remembers that moment - he was apologizing to her, because he knew how badly she wanted first, and her hand on his knee was meant to say _don’t do that, we’re a team._ Win together, lose together; that’s what Penny always tells them. It wasn’t a romantic moment, but she can sort of see how it might be conceived as such. They do look… touchy.

There are pictures of them with their hands clasped tightly, fingers linked. There’s a picture from when they won the Eastern Championships, the two of them atop the podium, Jughead beaming over at her as her own eyes are fixed on the stars and stripes hanging from the rafters. She’s seen that expression on his face before - when they nail a new lift, when their score is a new personal best - but she’s never realized that it surfaces when she’s not looking.

 _they are way too sweet!_ comments a user called yunakim4ever. _I can’t wait until their wedding._

Betty slams her laptop shut.

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Heading to practice on Monday, Betty feels nervous in a way she hasn’t in years and years, not since going to the rink meant she’d fall at least a few times and that Penny would mandhandle her body and Jughead’s, coaxing them into a picture-perfect dance hold that they’d struggle to maintain once they started to move. She’s jittery in the passenger seat, both her legs bouncing restlessly until her mother shoots her a look that makes her stop.

Jughead is already there, skating laps around the ice. Because they’re always together, she rarely gets to see him skate by himself, and sometimes forgets how _good_ he is. Even in the simplest of movements, there’s something very sure about the glide of his blades, like his skates are an extension of his legs. He has the best edges at the rink. He has the best edges in the tri-state area. Judging by their regional scores, he probably has the best edges in the Eastern US. The stars really aligned for them - what are the chances, after all, that two people, one with his raw talent, one with her determination, would be born in the same year in the same small town? - and she _knows_ it. There is something special about them, between them, that she feels in her soul.

 _But what,_ a cruel, frosty voice demands in the back of her mind, _if you’re the only one?_

Jughead spots her and waves, his hand encased in one of the slim black gloves they wear on the ice so that they can still get a grip on one another. She raises her hand in return and scurries off to the dressing room.

She takes off her coat, sets down her bag, toes off her shoes, and ties on her skates. At this point, she’d usually leave the dressing room, but instead she finds herself lingering, adjusting her leggings on her calves so that the side seams aren’t twisting around to the front, untying and re-tying the ballet wrap she’s wearing over her lilac leotard, taking out her ponytail and pulling her hair up again, higher and tighter this time. When she’s finally out of things to fret over, she walks out to the rink on her guards.

He comes over the moment she steps onto the ice, while she’s still doing her customary set of grand pliés with one hand on the boards for balance. Like a peace offering, he says, “The cookies were really good, Betts. I finished them about ten minutes after you dropped me off.”

She moves her arm through first and second position as she sinks into another plié. “You didn’t share with Jelly?”

Jughead doesn’t say anything for what seems like quite a long time. When Betty straightens up again, her hand drifting down to bras bas, she looks over at him. His eyes are fixed to a spot on the ice.

“Juggie?” she asks softly. Her annoyance and anxiety melt away in the cool air emanating from the ice beneath their feet, leaving her with only a faint sense of confusion and a hint of worry that has her biting her lip.

Slowly, he drags his gaze to hers, and when their eyes meet, green and blue, her breath catches in her throat. He looks _young_ , not at all like the teenage boy whose hand curled tight around her thigh in a way it never has before during their last performance, but like the little kid who took her hand for the first time at this rink with a beanie on his head and a fear that he was going to fall and drag her down with him.

He wets his lips - and Betty most definitely does not trace the quick movement of his tongue with her eyes - and says, “I… ”

Before he can get anywhere, though, Penny skates over, little bits of ice flying up when she comes to an abrupt stop right in front of them. “Let’s get going,” she says. Her voice is particularly raspy this morning and she smells like smoke. “You found something really good in Rochester, hit a great stride, but we don’t want to get comfortable. Right?”

“Right,” Betty says, automatically and obediently. She glances over at Jughead; he’s looking down at the ice again.

“Do some laps and make sure you’re warm,” Penny orders. “Then we’ll run it.” By _run it_ Betty knows she really means _run your free dance while I stop you obsessively to point out where you’re being sloppy and force you to drill sections until it’s perfect or until you feel like each and every one of your limbs is about to fall off - whichever comes first_.

Penny skates away again, and Betty reaches, instinctively, for Jughead’s hand. He engulfs her chilly fingers in the fabric of his glove.

“Were you - ” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“Did you do the history homework?”

Betty blinks. “Yes.” She always does her homework, even when her eyelids are drooping with tiredness or when her biceps are so sore from a day at the gym that the last thing she wants to do is haul textbooks out of her bookbag.

“What was your topic again?”

“Robespierre.”

Jughead picks up his speed as they round in a corner, and Betty falls into step with him seamlessly, as she always does, their blades stroking in perfect unison. “That’s a good one. I have the Declaration of Pillnitz.”

“Are you finished?”

He slides her a half-smile. “Almost.”

Betty doesn’t want to smile back, but her lips tilt up the teeniest bit at their corners, betraying her. Jughead’s just as smart as she is, but his report cards always say he _lacks initiative_. Betty doesn’t blame him - their lives are full of so many other things that she thinks she’d lack initiative to do her algebra homework, too, if she didn’t have her mother breathing down her neck.

“I can help you if you want,” she offers as they slip into a dance hold without needing to discuss the transition, her hand resting delicately against his shoulder. “We can go to the library after school. Or, since we have to be back here at seven, we could just go to your place and - ”

“It’s okay,” he interjects. “I can do my own homework.” There’s a beat, every bit as tense as his shoulder, which she can feel creeping upward, toward his ear, and then he adds, in a softer voice that’s nearly contrite, “Thanks, though, Betts.”

She swallows, looking not at his face but beyond it. “It’s fine. I’m sure you have plans with your girlfriend.” She breaks out of their hold and skates away from him as fast as her legs will take her, curving across the centre of the rink and beginning to pracice their non-touching step sequence so Penny doesn’t demand to know what the hell she’s doing.

“Cooper!” Penny calls. “Jones! Let’s go! Starting position, centre ice.”

Despite the jumble of emotions bubbling inside her, making her feel like she’s a volcano on the verge of eruption, Betty orders herself to get her head in the game. She joins Jughead, ignoring his attempts at eye contact and taking her position with her back to his, rolling her shoulders back and pasting on her performance smile.

Things are fine during their free dance. The weight of Jughead’s hands against her is normal: a steady pressure, a secure hold. His fingertips don’t dig into her skin and his palms don’t press against her when it isn’t strictly necessary. Betty finds peace in that, in the way things are the same as they ever were. When Penny tells her to link her hands at the back of Jughead’s neck during their spin, she does it. When Penny yells _keep connected even when you’re not touching!_ , Betty casts her gaze across the ice to Jughead, fixing her eyes on his jaw, where she can see his muscles working as he concentrates. When Penny says Betty should use him for greater leverage during a half-leap, half-lift piece of choreography, she slides her hand out of Jughead’s and up his arm, to just below his elbow, without hesitation.

They’re sweaty and worn out by the time Penny is somewhat satisfied. “Let’s do the whole thing,” she says, cueing their music.

Betty pours herself into the whole three minutes, despite the way her legs are aching in protest. She finds her centre of gravity as they twizzle and doesn’t lose it. She finds Jughead’s hand at the exact moment he holds it out to her. She tries to radiate energy through every inch of her body, through her fingertips and toes and the top of her head. When Jughead lifts her up, arms clasped together around her upper thighs, Betty raises her arms with the swan-like elegance Lawrence is always demanding, tilts her chin up toward the ceiling and stares up at the lights and the rafters, and feels, really and truly, like she could fly.

The routine ends the way it begins, with their backs to each other, only this time they stand about a foot apart and they each reach back, holding hands in the space between their bodies. Lawrence and Penny have a whole narrative for the dance: Betty and Jughead met one another - Betty likes to imagine that this happens on a cobblestone street somewhere in Europe - and proceeded to dance the night away, and now that it’s getting late, they don’t want to part from one another.

(“So, basically how you actually are,” Polly said when Betty explained the story to her family. Betty had frowned at her sister as she watched Polly’s guilt-free consumption of a blueberry pancake.)

Once the music has faded away, they bow, just once, since Penny says it’s a crucial habit to get into and you always want to thank your audience, and then Betty goes to pull her hand from Jughead’s, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls her closer, close enough so that he can grab her other hand, too, and when she looks at him inquisitively she finds that his eyes are full of light.

“That was so good,” he pants, his voice hushed, meant only for her and not for Penny. “Wasn’t it?”

The question is so earnest is nearly hurts. She can’t deny how it felt when he lifted her skyward; it was like they weren’t even in a rundown rink in Riverdale anymore.

“It was,” she says, and once again, her mouth disobeys her. She wants to smile at him, to show that she means it, but it feels like that easy, upward curve is something her muscles have forgotten.

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When the two quick taps that always precede her mother’s entrance sound against Betty’s bedroom door, she’s in bed, curled up in her coziest flannel pyjamas, a novel open in her hands, and a heating pad resting low on her stomach. She’s only been getting her period for a few months and hasn’t yet come to terms with wearing leotards while she’s bloated or having her body tossed around while throwing desperate prayers to the menstruation gods that her ‘sport’ tampons are, in fact, designed to hold up even during intense athletics - but she knows she’ll have to, preferably sooner than later.

Alice comes and perches on the edge of Betty’s bed. “Aren’t you tired, honey?”

“I just wanted to read a little before I fell asleep.” Sometimes it feels like the only unscheduled moments she has to herself are in her dreams.

Her mother eyes the copy of _Beloved_ Betty’s holding and frowns. “Where did you get that?”

“The library.”

“I think you’re a bit young for that book.”

Betty shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not. And I _have_ to know how it ends.”

“Hm,” her mother says, but she doesn’t insist that fourteen is not old enough to read Sethe’s story, so Betty counts it as a victory. She lifts a hand and touches Betty’s cheek softly, fingers tracing skin with a maternal tenderness that almost - but not quite - squashes Betty’s fleeting thought that her mother might be searching for a hollow beneath her cheekbone that doesn’t exist without her on-ice intense contouring. “I got a very interesting e-mail today.”

“Yeah?”

Alice nods and smiles at Betty like they share a secret. “The coaches at Tundra are interested in meeting you two.”

“At Tundra?” Betty asks, her eyes widening. “In Detroit?”

Her mother nods again. “We can take a drive there during your winter break. Let them see you and Jughead in action.”

“Winter break?” Betty says, feeling a bit like a parrot as she repeats her mother’s words again, but she can’t help herself. Winter break seems really _soon._ “Mom, I - I don’t know.” She knows Tundra’s - and its intimidating head coach’s - public reputation well: trainers and coaches of gold, silver, and bronze Olympic medalists; a list of successes longer than Betty’s lifespan. But just one trip to nationals, and the brief immersion into the tight-knit, gossipy world of figure skating that it brought, was enough to give her some insight into the realities of training there. She’s not sure she could handle training with someone so harsh and demanding; Penny’s reduced her to tears a few times and that’s been embarrassing enough, despite the sweet way Jughead will grab her shoulder and murmur into her ear afterward. She’s not sure she could handle being so far away from her family, particularly her sister, and she’d bet that Jughead feels the same way about Jellybean. And she’s not sure she could handle being the shiny new team at Tundra, only to be dropped like a hot potato the moment their glow wears off, a trend the rink’s history has demonstrated.

“Elizabeth,” her mother says, not without gentleness. “We need to find new coaches. Penny has done all she can for you.”

Betty wants to protest, but she knows in her heart that her mother is right. Penny’s made them better than they ever thought they could be, but she’s never taken anyone (besides herself, and that story doesn’t exactly have a happy ending) to the Olympics, or even to Worlds. She knows that her mother’s right when she says that they need a new coach in order to break onto the senior circuit successfully. She knows that, but -

“It can’t be Tundra.” She’s heard there are weekly weigh-ins and that girls go home on Fridays with tears in their eyes and skip dinner. She’s heard about guys throwing their backs out in the gym, and being abandoned by their partners while they recover. “It - there are other coaches. Other schools.”

“There are two people in your partnership, Elizabeth,” her mother reminds her. “You owe it to Jughead to discuss this with him,” she adds, like Jughead is the level-headed one. For an instant, Betty wants nothing more than to inform her mother that Jughead is cruising between Riverdale and Greendale on a motorcycle, but of course, she bites her tongue.

“I will,” she promises, because she talks about everything with Jughead.

Or she did, anyway. Before.

She has the sudden, heart-wrenching thought that Jughead might like the idea of the move. And as much as she fears how she’d come out on the other side of a place like Tundra, she’s downright petrified of how their partnership might - or might not - survive that kind of fracture.

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On the third Sunday of each month, the Bijou plays an older movie in the evening. Betty and Jughead have gone together almost every month for the last two years, unless one of them was sick or he needed to babysit Jellybean or they had a last-minute training session or something. In the beginning, Archie often came with them, but it didn’t take long for him to get sick of their inside jokes and unfinished sentences and start declining invitations.

Jughead asks her about going when their lengthy Saturday practice is finally finished. Betty’s exhausted and in desperate need of a shower, her body sticky with sweat. She’s so hungry that she actually can’t wait to eat the steamed asparagus and salmon her mother will have waiting for her. She’s a little thrown when she steps out of the women’s changing room and finds Jughead hovering outside the door.

“Hey,” he says. “You were great today.”

“You too,” she replies. Despite how irritated she is by him lately, she never even thinks about critiquing his skating.

“So, Bijou tomorrow?” he asks.

“Oh, do you still like _watching_ movies?” She means, at first, for it to be teasing, but her words come out harsh and biting. “I thought you were too busy living them instead. Though, I’ve got to admit that I can’t quite figure out if it’s _Easy Rider_ or _Rebel Without a Cause_ this week.”

Jughead’s eyes go steely and he sighs a great big sigh before he says, with a degree of undisguised exasperation and an obvious effort at calm and control, “Betty,” and she can’t believe the nerve of him, acting like _she_ is trying _his_ patience.

“I don’t want to see _Trainspotting_ anyway,” she says, and brushes by him, taking long strides until she’s outside of the rink and slipping into her mother’s car, closing the door too hard behind her so that Alice, too, looks at her in exasperation.

In the end, she does go to the movie, because Polly is going with Jason Blossom and offers her a ride, and Betty figures she’d rather be at the movie theatre than at home with just her mother, since her father is in Cleveland for some sort of journalistic conference. Besides, she reasons, it’s extremely unlikely that Jughead will be there. He’s probably with Toni, riding fast down the highway or having sex or taking up smoking or something.

As always, Betty purchases an extra-large diet soda. Her dietitian wouldn’t approve; the zero-calorie count doesn’t outweigh the unhealthy nature of the beverage. But she allows herself this one night to rebel each month, this one night to act like the teenager she is and break a rule.

She sits where they always sit, four seats in from the left in the fifth-from-the-back row. She hears a peal of her sister’s laughter as Polly responds to something Jason’s said and feels a pang of jealousy so sharp and fierce she can’t pretend it away.

Just as the lights are dimming, Jughead shows up, a pack of Red Vines in his hands, like always. Betty blinks in surprise as he drops into the seat next to hers.

“Why aren’t you with Toni?” she hisses as Ewan McGregor begins to run onscreen.

Jughead takes his time settling into his seat. She watches him instead of the movie until he finally says, “Toni broke up with me.”

Her mouth falls open. “Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, Jug... I’m sorry,” she tells him, and finds that she means it. She never wants him to be sad, or hurt, or to feel rejected.

He shrugs. “She wanted something different,” he says simply, and for a moment Betty doesn’t understand, but then he tilts his head toward the darkest corner of the theatre. She turns, and in the light coming from the screen in front of them, manages to catch glimpses of two signature hair colours: pink and red.

She turns back to Jughead with her eyes wide in her face and remembers to whisper just in time as she asks, “ _Cheryl Blossom?_ ”

He nods. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes, though she has the distinct impression that he’s leaving something out.

And it turns out that she’s right: a moment later, Jughead sighs and says, in a voice so low she has to strain to hear him, “Actually, that’s - that’s not really true.” He shifts in his seat. “Things started with Toni - when things started with Toni, I needed to talk to someone. Someone who would understand.”

“Understand what?” Betty prods gently.

He looks at her in the darkness of the theatre. “My mom left,” he says. “Weeks - well, _months_ ago, now. She took Jellybean with her.” He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

Betty sucks in a breath. “Juggie,” she says, her heart in her throat. “I - I’m sorry, I - ”

“Don’t, Betts,” he says, laying a hand on her thigh to halt her words. His skin is warm, even through the denim of her jeans. “Don’t do what you’re going to do - say you’re sorry and hatch up some kind of plan to make things right, it - it’ll probably make me do something embarrassing like cry.”

She stares at him for a moment, just _aching_ for him, like she can feel his heartbreak in her own body, and then she reaches out and wraps her arms around his neck, basically muscling him into a hug, and presses her cheek into his neck.

“I wish I’d known,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I - Jughead, you can tell me _anything._ ”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around her and rubbing at her back like she’s the one who needs comfort. “It’s just… a lot, sometimes. You and me.”

She pulls back from the hug to look at him and nods. In a rush, she says, “I know. I didn’t mean what I said in Rochester, Jug - you’re _not_ like my brother. But I - I love you. You’re my best friend. And it - you - that’s the most important thing in my whole life, probably.”

He brushes the few wispy strands that have escaped her ponytail back behind her ear; Sunday is the one day of the week that she’s granted a reprieve from hairspray. His knuckles brush her cheek even after her flyaway hairs are secured. On screen, Mark Renton is digging through a truly disgusting toilet, but she’s so distracted by her efforts to read what’s written in Jughead’s eyes that she doesn’t even cringe.

“Me too, Betts,” he says. “You’re my best friend, too.”

“Forever?” she asks, and it’s childish, that word, and maybe it’s pathetic, how badly she wants to hear his confirmation, but Jughead just smiles, a small and soft thing that she sometimes believes he reserves only for her, and agrees: “Forever.”

She smiles back at him, and shifts in her seat to face the screen again. He does the same. When the scene finally changes to something less nauseating, he rips the bag of Red Vines open and holds it toward her.

Betty gives her head a little shake. “That’s not in my meal pl - ”

“Betts,” he says, and gives her a look like _c’mon._ He moves the bag back and forth under her nose, like the scent will waft up and tempt her.

It sort of works. “Just a couple,” she says, and extracts a single piece of liquorice from the bag. She takes a bite and closes her eyes in rapture at taste of sugar’s unapologetic sweetness.

When she opens her eyes, Jughead’s still smiling, looking at her and not the movie. Betty bites into her licorice again, chews, swallows, and remembers what she promised her mother last week.

“Do you want to train at Tundra?” she asks him.

“ _Fuck_ no,” Jughead says immediately, and his cursing surprises a giggle so sudden out of Betty that she has to clasp her hand over her mouth. She grins behind her palm, utterly pleased by his response, by the way it reflects her own feelings.

Begbie begins to tell a story in a bar, and Betty realizes she’s behind on the film’s narrative. She fixes her eyes on the screen and leans over, rests her cheek against Jughead’s shoulder, and allows herself a big, satisfying bite of licorice.

 

 

 

to be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on ch. 1! please leave some comments for this chapter as well. we really, really appreciate it!


	3. sixteen

_You just keep me hanging on_

 

A little over a year later, everything changes.

It starts when Penny Peabody, who’s been their skating coach since they were barely eight years old, is arrested after a fight at the Whyte Wyrm. Jughead never gets the full story on what started the altercation, but it ends with Penny and her ex-husband being thrown out onto the curb - a feat in itself for the Wyrm, where violence is not the exception - after she smashes him over the head with a beer bottle. She’s booked on a charge of first-degree aggravated assault. In the interrogation process, it somehow comes out that Penny is involved in a number of shady business deals, many of which are tied to her skating company. It’s shut down by the state attorney, and just like that, Jughead and Betty are rudderless.

They’ve had interest from outside before - and realistically, they’d passed Penny’s level probably a year ago or more. Betty had asked him once if he’d ever be interested in training in Detroit, and without a beat to contemplate, he’d said no, knowing that Tundra wasn’t a good place for him or for her. It’s not the last time - they win a few more junior competitions, medal at Junior Worlds, and there is a lot of outside interest there, plus further pushing from Alice about pursuing their training somewhere with more serious coaches and sports psychologists and nutritionists. It’s probably what their skating needs, Jughead thinks, and definitely what someone with Betty’s level of talent deserves, but any time they’ve seriously entertained the thought of it, there’s been something holding them back. It’s him, worried about the money or about being just another person to leave his father; or her, stuck between (relative) freedom and the fear of it.

Not long after the news comes out, Jughead is with Betty at her house when they get a call. They’re doing homework in an effort to keep their minds off of what seems initially to be the sudden end to their career (or at least, that’s how it seems to _him,_ but he’s prone to assuming the worst). Alice is milling about, offering expertly-sliced vegetables to Betty and fresh cookies to him with her chin set confidently, convinced that they’ll get new coaching offers.

And they do. With sponsorship that covers room, board, travel, and online high school.

Because they’re moving. To _Canada._

Of all the things Jughead thought he would ever become, an internationally-hosted athlete was definitely on the bottom of the list. There were times where he even doubted if he’d leave Riverdale at all. And yet here he is in Montreal, Québec, sitting in the basement bedroom of a host family’s two-storey, staring at his still-packed suitcases. They’re both practically bursting at the seams with his regular clothes, skating gear, books, and the few smaller personal items that he’d taken from the trailer. Pictures of him and his dad, who was over the moon with pride at the big move; pictures of him and Jellybean, who demanded a FaceTime tour at his earliest convenience; and pictures of himself, Archie, and Betty, because you can’t make old friends.

It’s weird for him to leave Archie in Riverdale, even with promises of regular online gaming sessions fresh in his memory. At least Betty is by his side, and he at hers.

He and Betty haven’t _always_ been close. When Jughead looks back at when they’d first started skating together, he remembers mainly awkwardness, interspersed with the occasional comfortable memory of her being nice to him. Without Archie as a buffer, their partnership had seemed forced - which isn’t totally untrue, given that they only even started as a pair because Penny had decided that it be so. Over the years, though, slowly but surely, they grew together. The positions they’re put in - her legs wrapped around his hips, her body extending out from his shoulders, his hands on every square inch of her skin - basically necessitate a base level of a certain kind of intimacy, and by now, they’ve certainly reached it.

That’s probably why right now, as he’s staring at his bags and willing them to unpack themselves, Betty is flopped on his new bed beside him with her legs draped over his lap. Her head is partially propped up by a pillow and she’s picking at her perennially-short nails, but he can feel her gentle judgement.

“Y’know, if you stand up and open one of the bags, that’s the first step,” she advises.

Jughead sticks his tongue out at her. “Is that an offer to help?”

“You didn’t help _me_ unpack!”

“You didn’t ask!” Jughead accentuates his response with a quick squeeze of her knee, which is left bare by her grey cotton shorts. “Plus, let’s not pretend like you’d actually let me interfere with your organizational routine.”

Betty rolls her eyes and slides her legs off Jughead’s lap, wriggling her body toward the end of the bed until her feet hit the berber carpet. “It’s not a _routine,_ it’s just … it works, okay?” She stands up and makes her way over to one of Jughead’s suitcases. Her hand touches the clasps, but just before she opens it she turns and smirks at him. “And if you read Marie Kondo, you’d never fold your clothes the same way again.”

“Betts, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t fold my clothes to _begin_ with, so -”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” She opens the suitcase and stares at the mass of wrinkled t-shirts. “Jughead, what the hell is this? All of these are going to be wrinkled!”

“They’re _t-shirts,_ Betty, they’re made to be wrinkled.”

Betty jaw drops slightly; she turns to stare at him, her eyes accusing. “That’s not even _remotely_ true.” She picks one up, shakes it out, and carefully refolds it before setting it neatly on the corner of the bed. “You start folding, I’m going to go ask Elle if she’s got an ironing board and an iron we can borrow.”

Jughead groans but stands up. “Betty, _no,_ ” he says, grabbing her wrist before she can leave the room. The idea of his skating partner going to ask the new host mother that he’s only known for a few hours to borrow an _iron_ is highly embarrassing. He’s aware that he’s a product of a fairly traditionally male-dominated upbringing, and that his basic household skills are somewhat lacking, but _that_ is a line he won’t let her cross. Elle and her husband, Clark, clearly already like Betty a lot - everyone does, especially adults - but it’s probably not a good idea, he thinks, for them to be aware this early on just how co-dependent he and Betty really are.

(It’s normal, he tells himself. Very normal.)

Betty grabs his hand. “Juggie, c’mon. You’re gonna walk around Montreal with wrinkled shirts?”

“I walked around Riverdale with wrinkled shirts. The only difference here is that if people judge me, there’s at least a fifty percent chance they’ll do it in French, so I won’t even know.”

Betty grins. “At least until we master our _Français_. Don’t forget I signed us up for classes!”

“Yeah, I remember, because they’re at _eight-thirty in the morning.”_

“We go to school that early!” she retorts. “Or, we used to. Plus, we have training like, always, so between learning French and needing to actually get our school stuff done still, there wasn’t any other time to schedule it.”

Jughead reaches out and grabs her around the waist suddenly, tugging her toward him until she falls on him, giggling. “Part of the advantage of online school was that I didn’t _have_ to go to school at eight-thirty anymore,” he says, slipping his fingertips beneath the hem of her t-shirt to tickle her waist. “You stole that dream from me!”

Betty suppresses a shriek and jerks in his grasp, trying between fits of laughter to free herself. Unfortunately for her, the last eight years of Jughead’s life have largely been spent learning how to hold onto her more securely, and he knows that he’s won this war.

He decides to be merciful and stops tickling her, but for good measure he keeps her trapped with her back on the bed and her legs bent half-underneath his torso. She glares up at him, her eyes filled with mirth and glints of teasing, and if it weren’t for the way that she’s digging her big toe into his thigh, he thinks he might be immobilized by how fucking pretty she is.

“Let me go,” Betty demands.

“Nine o’clock,” Jughead bargains. “Nine o’clock and I’ll let you go.”

“Eight thirty and I’ll bake you cupcakes every other weekend,” she counters.

Jughead’s hand slips to tickle her briefly again. He intends it as a playful warning, but it also makes him lose his secure grip, and before he knows what’s happening Betty has rolled out from beneath him and flipped him onto his back. She straddles his waist, his wrists caught in her hand, and grins down at him triumphantly.

“Eight-thirty,” she says, panting slightly. “I win.”

Jughead closes his eyes briefly and lets his arms go limp. Since he’s not in the business of offending his partner, he tries _not_ to focus on the pressure Betty’s placing on a particularly sensitive area, but it is, in a euphemism, _hard._ He thinks he’s pretty advanced as far as mastering his Betty-related self control goes - one does not simply touch her essentially for a living without becoming adept at managing his hormonal reactions - but sometimes she still manages to surmount it anyway.

“You say that like having you straddling me is somehow losing,” he comments, which has the intended effect of making her jaw drop and climb off of him.

“Jug,” Betty chastises, her cheeks turning pink. He thinks she’s cute always, but there’s something about the way her face reddens and scrunches up when he compliments her that is extra fucking _adorable,_ in a very confusing way. She’s bad at receiving flattery, generally, and while he doesn’t ever want to make her uncomfortable, sometimes he just feels like he needs to do … something.

Like _flirting._

“What? It worked,” Jughead replies, digging himself in deeper. It’s not like he knows what he’s fucking doing anyway.

Betty throws a pillow at him, still red-faced, and resumes unpacking.

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At night, he’s still in the trailer. His mom is there too, and Jellybean, who’s still a baby even though Jughead is sixteen. His parents hate each other (broken glass, screams, and heavy breathing) but then they love each other suddenly (more broken glass, screams, and heavy breathing), and she’s fucking _there_ and even if it burns them all down in the end, it’s always worth it in his dream.

Sometimes, Betty’s there too, holding his hand while the fire rages around them.

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Between Penny’s arrest, the abrupt end to their prior formal training, and the all-too-sudden move to a different country, things in Jughead’s life are very different than they had been even a month prior. He’s no longer trudging through Sunnyside to meet Betty at the rink before dawn, or begrudgingly acquiescing to their athletic trainer’s demands around deadlifts, or dodging taunts in the locker room of his high school gym class because he’s too sore from last night’s ballroom dancing class with Betty to be properly effective at wrestling. Nor is he even trying to make kale and protein powder smoothies palatable flavour-wise, a years-long process that he’s yet to fully master.

No; now, in his somewhat post-reality Québécois life, Jughead is picked up in the morning by Betty, whose parents, as expected, had bought her a used car for her sixteenth birthday. They head to French class, which he finds out that he’s bad at _(très horrible)_ , and then they go to the rink to start working with Luc and Sophie, their new coaches.

It’s still a little surreal to Jughead that they’re even in the same room as them: Luc Hansard and Sophie Richard are _legends_ in the ice dancing community. They’re multiple-time world and Olympic champions, have been skating together for decades, and have the most beautifully executed lifts that Jughead’s ever seen, even now. And they want to coach him and Betty, two kids from the proverbial sticks with not much to their names but a couple of junior titles, some positive internet buzz, and an unfortunate cloud of rumours thanks largely to their association with Penny, whose ongoing court case is definitely making headlines in skating circles.

(Luc and Sophie are also married, which Jughead could’ve guessed from a mile away. Romantic relationships between partners aren’t _that_ uncommon in ice dance, and even apart from the sparkling ring on Sophie’s finger, Luc is _very_ obvious about his affection for his wife.)

Luc and Sophie are friendly and kind but run them like drill sergeants, sending he and Betty repeatedly gliding across the ice and then back with enough abrupt turns and twizzles to make Jughead’s temporarily-underutilized calves burn. They work lifts with him in an Ina Bauer position for almost two hours, making small, minute adjustments until his legs shake and giving direction that Jughead definitely doesn’t fully understand but that Betty seems to, until finally they break for lunch.

And then, things _really_ change.

Penny and the rest of her vaguely shady, sub-contracted trainers had never really cared much about what they ate. He’d been told to get more protein to help build muscle for more power, hence the terrible shakes, but he was mostly otherwise left alone. Betty was seemingly always on some sort of carrot-sticks-and-sadness diet, but that had essentially nothing to do with Penny and everything to do with Alice. He’d been aware, tangentially, that other teams had nutritionists and other professionals working with them to maximize their performance, and had always just kind of naively assumed that they didn’t need it, mostly.

He was, apparently, wrong.

Because _lunch,_ Jughead is dismayed to find out, is _not_ a burger from a low-rent diner, his food of choice. Instead, it’s almost three hundred grams of chicken breast and a heap of something called quinoa, which tastes like fluffy sand. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, _absurd,_ and he won’t stand for it - until he notices that Betty’s quinoa is actually a garden salad and he decides not to complain.

They’re given meal plans to follow, which Jughead is told that his host family has agreed to sustain. The meal plans contain way too many egg whites and not nearly enough fries, but his protein powder is now cookies-and-cream flavoured, so it could be worse. His and Betty’s new training partners, a friendly brother-sister duo from somewhere in British Columbia who are inexplicably named Forrest and Flora, assure Jughead that he’ll adjust; in response, he pretends to dramatically cry on Betty’s shoulder.

“You’ll survive,” she says flatly, patting his head.

Jughead sighs and sits up with a slight groan; the hard plastic chairs upstairs in the rink are not going to be good for his back. “We’re still trying poutine this week,” he declares. “Meal plan be damned.”

Across the room, Forrest’s eyebrows raise. “You’ve never had poutine?”

Betty shakes her head. “We have cheese fries at the diner back home, but it’s cheddar, not curds. And no gravy. So Jug’s been looking forward to having it here. A lot.”

“I’m not gonna say that it was the first thing I thought of when we got recruited up here, but it was probably the second thing,” Jughead admits with a cheeky grin.

“You definitely need to try it,” Flora confirms, nodding along with her brother. “And the maple syrup here, it’s so -”

“We’ve got maple syrup around Riverdale, too,” Jughead cuts in. “The town was founded on it.”

Forrest and Flora exchange an unreadable look, then Forrest says, “Believe me, guys, maple syrup in Québéc is something else altogether. Very dramatic.”

“More dramatic than the Blossoms?” Jughead whispers to Betty, who shrugs and eats a piece of diced bell pepper. She’d been peppy at the start of the day, but as it’s gone on, she’s become more quiet. Her eyes are tired, the way they get when she hasn’t slept, and he makes a mental note to ask her about it later.

“We’ll try it,” Betty promises Forrest. Under the table, her knee presses against Jughead’s; he drops his hand to it, squeezes affectionately, and Betty’s mouth curls into a small smile.

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After a couple more hours of skating post-lunch, during which time Luc and Sophie introduce them to a man named Henri, who will apparently serve as their “chemistry coach”. Henri yells at Betty to “be more passionate” and for Jughead to “hold her like she’s a _woman”_ , which makes him mildly uncomfortable, then they go home.

Technically, it’s still summertime, but their training will become more high-intensity as they enter fall and winter, so it’s been decided that they get a head start on the upcoming school year. It’s all being done online, but Betty suggests that they work together anyway in case there are technical difficulties, so they make a stop at her host family’s house on the way back from the rink so that she can grab her books and laptop.

He waits in the car. Her host family is nice enough, but the room she has there is upstairs and offers less privacy compared to the incredible setup he’s got. At Elle and Clark’s, not only does he have a bedroom in the basement - two whole storeys away from their master bedroom and the bedroom of their five-year-old daughter, Amie - but they’ve also designated much of the rest of the basement to be his space. His laptop is set up on a desk in one corner, and there’s a TV and a couch that is essentially his to use.

As someone who’d grown up in a one-bedroom trailer with three other people, it’s more space than he’s ever had to himself in his entire life. At Sunnyside, the thought of his own room had been unimaginable to Jughead; actually _having it_ presents a cognitive dissonance that he’s yet to completely sort through. He’d like to think that this might become his norm, that skating will actually turn into something permanently lucrative in his life, as he’d always hoped, enough that he could help his sister and his parents and maybe even himself.

(And then on a purely selfish note, he can’t believe that he has the better room. He’s never had the better _anything,_ other than the better skating partner.)

Jughead’s phone buzzes. He slides it unlocked and sees a text from Archie waiting. _Settling in? Games later?_

He taps out a quick response - _yeah, like 9ish, maybe?_ \- which he finishes just in time to see Betty skip out of the house with her backpack over her shoulder. She’s changed out of her long-sleeved thermal leggings and sweater and into a more weather-appropriate pair of jean shorts with flip-flop sandals. Her hair is out of its knot and down around her shoulders, the ends wisping at the chain of her long necklace, whose pendant sits just below the neckline of her tank top. The skin below her neck is soft, he recalls, especially just where her chest begins to swell. Lucky pendant.

“You look summery,” Jughead informs her as soon as Betty gets back into the car.

She stares at him. “Well, it _is_ summer.”

“You’re set, then.” He presses his lips together. “Do you wanna skip school and get poutine?”

Betty laughs. “It’s literally the first day. You wanna skip the first day?”

“Nobody _knows_ it’s the first day except us,” he points out.

“Jughead.”

He just shrugs at her. “We’ll make tomorrow the first day. C’mon, think about it. Fries, cheese, _gravy -”_

“It’s hot outside.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s more ice cream weather than … that.”

“We can get ice cream too.”

Betty sighs. “You say that like I have room in my meal plan for either one of those things, let alone both.”

“I’ll lend you some of my calories.” Jughead sticks his lower lip out the way that Jellybean used to when she wanted something. It’s a technique that always worked for her but never for him - until he’d started using it on Betty.

She grits her teeth together in a show of faux-anger, but even as she’s doing that, a smile is tugging at her lips, and Jughead knows he’s won even before she says, “God, _fine.”_ She unbuckles her seat belt. “But we’re walking.”

“Betty Cooper, you’re the finest lady in all the land.”

Betty looks at him, mildly amused. “You’re buying.”

Jughead smiles and falls into step beside her as they head up the sidewalk. He lives a few blocks from Betty, but still pretty close; they’re both still within Côte Saint-Luc, a suburb in the west end of Montreal that’s pretty evenly situated between their various training facilities. It’s also primarily anglophone, which Jughead’s thankful for: if his performance in their class that morning is any indication, he’s not going to be carrying on any in-depth conversations in French anytime soon.

“So,” Jughead begins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Montreal.”

“Montreal,” Betty repeats, glancing at him briefly. “What about it?”

He peers ahead, noting the way the leafy street curves to the right, and mentally adjusts his course accordingly. “How are you liking it?”

“Well, like I said, it’s the first day,” Betty replies, shrugging. “But it’s good so far, I think. I like my host family. I like the city, from what we’ve seen of it. I -” She hesitates, drops her breath, then keeps walking and starts talking again. “The people are nice. Luc and Sophie are incredible.”

Her words sound nice, but there’s a quiet hesitation in her tone, like there’s a _but_ that she’s not saying. Jughead remembers her tired eyes from earlier and tries to decide whether to press her on it. It’s always a mixed bag with Betty. He knows that she’s a take-charge, succeed-at-all-costs independent type, but he’s also intimately familiar with another sensitive, more quiet side of her that longs deeply for support and affection. It’s a side that, regardless of her steel-plated exoskeleton, is easily crushed under the weight of expectations; when it’s too much, that side of her drives the pressure into her skin.

Which side she’s willing to indulge at any moment, even with him, is often a game of chance. Right now there’s an edge to her jaw that he’s slightly wary of, so Jughead figures it’s safest to hold off for now, and offers a non-committal, “Yeah.”

They walk in silence for the better part of fifteen minutes, the comfortable kind that’s earned through years of car and bus rides and hours upon hours of speechless training, until finally Betty pulls up Google Maps on her phone and identifies that they’re only a few blocks from the poutinerie.

“It’s actually called a poutinerie?” he asks, somewhat disbelieving.

“Yep.” Betty chuckles softly. “I’m sensing a new favourite word.”

“You know it, babe,” Jughead says, winking exaggeratedly at her. She rolls her eyes in response but hooks her arm through his elbow, then steers him around the corner.

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Jughead falls immediately in love with poutine. He’s never felt this way before, with his heart light and his stomach overjoyed. Poutine - even the _word_ is amazing - tastes like gooey heaven, if heaven had thick gravy and tended to dribble down his chin, and he finishes almost the entire order that he’d bought to share with Betty. She’d refused her own, citing the godforsaken _meal plan,_ but he gets her to try a few fries anyway. He does manage to convince her to get ice cream - after all, that part _had_ been her idea - which he counts as a win. The neuroses around food that her mother has instilled in her have certainly served Betty well in ensuring that her athletic performance is nutritionally-supported as best as it can be, but Jughead also thinks it has a tendency to take away from her enjoyment of real, actual life, and whenever he has the opportunity he tries to break that down just a little more.

She works hard, he reasons. She should eat ice cream.

After, he walks Betty home. She’s still quiet, and he still doesn’t ask why, but she’s on Jughead’s mind during the few-block walk back to his house with his training gear and backpack over his shoulder. She’d offered to drive him but it’s not really that far, and there’s something kind of comforting about yet another walk back home, lugging his stuff with him. It’s just like it used to be, Jughead thinks, and as nervously excited as he is for what’s to come with this new stage of their career, he also wants to hold onto those familiar feelings.

He has dinner with his host family, which their five-year-old daughter uses as an opportunity to pepper him with questions. Elle is a former skater herself, which is apparently how she and her husband got into billeting, and little Amie is enthralled with the community. She’s also fully enamoured with Betty, who is the subject of most of her questions.

“She’s _so_ nice,” Amie says. “Is she really that nice?!”

Jughead spears a roasted potato with his fork. “She’s really that nice,” he confirms. “I know it doesn’t seem possible, but she is.”

“She’s so pretty, too.” Amie opens her mouth to accept a piece of fish that her father is trying to force her to eat, chews it, then swallows politely before continuing. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Elle clears her throat and offers him an apologetic look. “Amie, don’t badger him.”

“It’s okay,” Jughead tells her. With a smile, he looks at Amie and nods. “Sure, yeah. She’s beautiful.”

“Do you think she’d braid my hair?”

“I know she would.” He grins at her. “But I could too.”

Amie gapes at him. _“You_ could?”

“Sure.” Jughead pops another potato into his mouth. “I used to braid my little sister’s all the time.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jellybean.”

Amie starts giggling. “You guys have silly names.”

 _“Amie,”_ Clark admonishes, looking mortified. “Jughead, I’m sorry -”

He shrugs good-naturedly. It doesn’t bother him; he’s under no impression that names like _Jughead_ and _Jellybean,_ nicknames though they may be, are standard. “Yeah, well, I think _you’re_ silly,” he tells Amie, who grins excitedly.

“That’s what my teacher says, too!”

“Your teacher’s right,” Jughead replies. He winks at her, which sends her into another fit of giggles, then turns back to his food with a smile on his face.

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That night, he gets in about an hour of video game time with Archie, who spends most of their online conversation telling Jughead about a new girl that he’d met at Pop’s. She’s from New York City, their age, and glamorous, which is apparently Archie’s type-of-the-day. Jughead doesn’t listen too closely at first - Archie has a new love of his life every other week, practically - but by the end of the conversation, his interest is piqued. Archie sounds pretty serious about her, which is saying a lot considering his usual attention span, and for the first time Jughead feels genuinely sad about the physical distance between he and his best friend. This is the girl to end all girls (allegedly), and Jughead hasn’t met her.

After he’s done with Archie, Jughead sends an email to Jellybean, updating her on everything that’s gone on in the few days since the big move, then he showers and decides to go to bed. He’s just climbed into the clean sheets and allowed himself to nestle deeper into the soft warmth of the double bed (a goddamn _double bed,_ all to himself) when his phone rings.

It’s late enough that Jughead is immediately concerned about whoever’s calling. Nobody actually phones him, really - maybe his dad, occasionally Jellybean - and certainly, nobody does it unsolicited. He’s aware that his is not an on-the-phone generation, and whether fortunately or not Jughead is certainly not above that stereotype. So when he leans over for his phone, it’s with a mild, fleeting panic in his chest, which goes away instantly when his caller ID reveals that it’s Betty.

“Hey Betts,” he says easily, keeping his voice low despite the fact that he’s multiple feet - _metres,_ he mentally corrects - below anyone else in the house who might be sleeping. “What’s up? Kinda late for -”

“Penny got her skaters through blackmail,” Betty blurts out, cutting him off.

Jughead sits up immediately, rubbing a hand over his face. “What?”

Betty’s voice sounds clear but tense. “My mom told me,” she continues. “At the beginning, when Penny didn’t have any students and needed some to start her skating club, especially any male skaters - she got some of them to participate by blackmailing their parents with undesirable information. Illegal stuff they’d gotten into, affairs, drugs... it’s coming out in the investigation, and I - Mom didn’t want me to think that that’s why _they_ picked her as a coach. A lot of them were from Greendale and Centreville, but … also Riverdale.” Betty ends her monologue in a shaky whisper, but the unspoken insinuation hangs thunderously in the air anyway.

 _Fuck._ Jughead’s eyes close, just briefly, and he sighs. His dad owed Penny a favour, way back, and she needed boys for pairs; that’s why he’d been asked to join the skating club in the first place. He’d never tried to imagine what the favour was - she’s _probably_ a bit too young to have dated his father, but he often gets the impression that his dad has gotten around on the south side, and the concept of it being an ex-girlfriend situation is not totally out of reach - but now that he’s thinking about it, of fucking _course_ it’s something illegal.

FP Jones, Jr., here to ruin his day, like goddamn always.

“What are you telling me, Betty?” he asks, his tone sounding a bit more exasperated than he intends for it to. “That I’m here fraudulently?”

“No!” Betty sputters, sounding frantic. “I - I - you’d always said that you were skating because your dad knew Penny, and if that … if it’s because of something, I dunno, nefarious, I …”

“You what?” Jughead prompts in an uncontrolled exasperated tone, already dreading her answer. Any number of options runs through his head: _I can’t skate with someone from a family like yours. My mom won’t let me associate with criminals. I don’t want to ruin my reputation. I need to find a new -_

“I’m so scared,” she cuts in, light and wispy, like it’s a secret for the breeze to carry away. “I didn’t tell you because I’m so _terrified_ that you’ll quit if … because this is all based on a lie, and then I’ll be alone here in a different country and I -” she hiccups, loudly, which alarms Jughead immediately - “I miss my parents, and Polly, and my bedroom, and I _need_ you here, Juggie, I don’t know what I’ll do if -”

He’s sitting completely straight now, his eyes wide open and his ears straining. “Betty,” he says. “Betty. Betts, take a deep breath, okay? Listen to me. Can you hear me?”

“I shouldn’t put you on the spot like this,” she realizes suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

Then, sounding almost like she’s going to hyperventilate, she hangs up.

Jughead stares at his phone for a few seconds, not totally sure what just happened. It takes him a second to gather the scattered pieces of his mind back together, but as soon as he does he calls her back. He knows what she’s like when she gets too far inside her own head, and he also knows that she needs to hear that he’s not going anywhere, at least not tonight.

She doesn’t answer.

He redials her again, and again, and again, and finally he stops. Jughead falls back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and takes a deep breath. _Would_ he leave? Is this what he would have ended up doing, if Penny hadn’t forced it? Would he be pursuing something else instead? Another sport, or academics? Would he be more than a daydream along the path to writing a novel, like he’s always wanted?

(Is this the opportunity to do that?)

Then, a minute later, Jughead realizes, _maybe._ Maybe yes and maybe no to all of those things, but a definitive _no_ to stopping this now. Maybe it started because of Penny and his dad, but it kept going because of his _own_ hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, and he loves it because of Betty.

He pulls up his cell phone and texts her, hoping she’ll read it even if she won’t answer his calls. _I’m here because of us, not because of her,_ he writes, then stares at the darkening screen until, minutes later, a short _okay_ appears.

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Betty comes over the next morning to do school work before training at the rink. They don’t have French class on Tuesdays or Thursdays, so before parting yesterday afternoon, she’d made him agree to put in extra online hours with her. At the time, Jughead had been annoyed - it’s summer, he works hard, and he’s in an interesting new place, why can’t they just _explore_ \- but now, he’s grateful for the quick and immediate excuse to see her.

She shows up at the front door just as Amie is being carted off to daycare, so she stops and gives the little girl a hug and a smile on the way in. Jughead watches from a few feet away, noting the bags under her eyes that give away the sleepless nights she’s clearly had lately. He feels terrible that it’s because of him, however faint his actual culpability might be; he had never wanted her to doubt his commitment to their sport, to what they’ve already made and what they have yet to build, to _them,_ and it kills him that she has.

When Elle crouches down to help Amie put her shoes on, Jughead gestures for Betty to follow him. Once she gets close enough, he grabs her hand, leading her around the main staircase into the kitchen and then down to the basement.

As soon Betty’s backpack hits the carpeted floor, Jughead pulls her into a tight hug. She’s surprised at first, letting out a quiet “oh!”, but soon winds her arms around him too and returns the embrace.

“Don’t fucking do that again,” he says over her shoulder. “Answer the damn phone, Betty, _always._ I was so fucking worried about you.”

“I’m sorry,” she responds, her words muffled by his t-shirt. It sounds automatic, the apology, and he’s overwhelmed by the sense that she’s been conditioned to say that a lot. He doesn’t want _that_ either, her guilty apology. That’s not what this is about.

So Jughead clears his throat before speaking, hoping to sound less accusatory, and explains, “We’re each other’s families here, Betty - hell, you’re most of what I’ve got anywhere. We need to stick together.” He kisses her temple and then loosens his grip a bit. “I won’t just leave you, ever, as long as you don’t do it to me. Agreed?”

Betty pulls back slightly; now that he can see her face, he’s aware of the tears pooled in her eyes, and it makes his heart hurt. “Agreed,” she says softly. “I love you, Jug.”

Something in his chest twitches at that, and the answer has never been simpler. “I love you too.”

Betty makes a small squeaking noise at that, then throws her arms over his shoulders again. This time, she wraps her legs around his waist, her head resting almost over his back. It’s an easy hold for them, familiar, and Jughead thinks nothing of pressing his lips to her shoulder.

He walks her over to the desk where his laptop sits and sets her down carefully. He let his hand linger on her ass even once her feet are on the floor, his fingertips an inch away from the hem of her cotton shorts. He’s so used to touching her now that he barely registers the feeling of her body at first, but when he _does_ notice, it brings up other thoughts. Thoughts that he shouldn’t be having, about what it would be like to touch her in a non-skating context: to have her legs wrapped around him when she’s beneath him in his bed, to slip his hand into the neckline of her shirt, to bury his face between her breasts while she tugs at his hair -

Mercifully, Betty’s voice interrupts his hormonal rumination on her body. “So, math?” she suggests.

Jughead pulls his hand away, his face feeling warm. “Yeah. Math.”

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Two nights later, Jughead calls his father.

“Jug!” FP exclaims, his voice a little too boisterous. “What’s goin’ on, kid? How’s everything up in Montreal?”

“It’s fine,” Jughead says shortly. “Or it was, until the rumour mill got to us.”

“Oh?” FP clears his throat. “What now?”

“I think you know, Dad.” He flops back on the couch in the basement, the one that Elle and Clark have provided for him to use - already more than his own father had ever been able to do. _Which,_ Jughead knows, is not entirely his fault; there are a lot of factors at play with his parents’ economic station. He’s not stupid enough to really believe in the American dream, or whatever it’s being called these days, but he does know that there has to be something better for his father to be doing than alternating between drinking and various illegal activities.

And certainly, there had to have been an alternative to trading every bit of spare time his son has to a former neighbour or associate or whatever-the-hell Penny is to him.

“You callin’ 'bout the snake charmer?”

“Is that what you guys call her?” Jughead makes a face. “God. Yeah, I am. Is it true, then? Did I skate for her - am I _doing this_ \- because she blackmailed you with something?”

“Does it matter anymore, Jughead?” FP retorts, his tone hovering between angry and frustrated. “Look, I’m not perfect. But you’re fucking great at this, kid. Look at you! You’re going to be at the goddamn Olympics one day, mark my words. Doesn’t that make up for any reasons why?”

 _Typical,_ Jughead thinks, as he lifts his hand to his head and tosses his beanie onto the berber floor. “I would’ve liked to make my own decisions.”

“Not everyone lives in a world with _their own decisions,_ Jughead,” FP spits back. “Some of do what what we need to in order to get by.”

“And I thought that was exactly _not_ the life you wanted for me!” Jughead replies loudly, trying desperately to temper the volume of his voice so that nobody comes downstairs in concern.

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, and it’s quiet for a moment before FP says, “So what now? You quittin’?”

“No,” Jughead tells him firmly. “I’m choosing it now. This, and Betty. But I’m gonna wonder about it, Dad. I’m gonna wonder about what - who - I might’ve been otherwise. And I just wanted you to know that.”

He hangs up, not waiting for a response from his father - FP doesn’t deserve it, not right now - and immediately opens a waiting text from Betty.

It’s a picture, a meme involving a team of pair skaters and a team of ice dancers. The joke is corny and has a very targeted audience, Jughead identifies, but he’s a part of it, and it makes him laugh anyway.

 _You spend too much time on the internet,_ he texts Betty, fully aware that in this scenario, he’s the pot calling the kettle black, then turns and smiles into the side of the couch. He’ll never know exactly what was taken from him, but he did get Betty out of this; and, he thinks, that’s probably a fair trade.

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A week and a half later, Jughead is standing on a slightly elevated platform in a tailor’s studio that’s located on the third floor of an aging but beautiful building in Old Montreal. He and Betty have been sent here by Luc and Sophie to meet Ruth Perrault, a talented but famously no-nonsense designer who will be managing their costumes for the season. The woman herself hasn’t actually materialized yet, but they’d both been immediately whisked into the central room for measurements by a couple of assistants.

The first thing that’s measured is his height. Out of curiosity, because he hasn’t bothered to find out in a couple of years, Jughead asks, “How tall am I now?”

“Just shy of six feet, sir,” the assistant tells him.

“Juggie!” Betty exclaims, “when did you get to be six feet tall? I swear you were four feet just yesterday.”

Jughead sticks his tongue out at her in response. “Aren’t you still four feet tall?”

“I’m five-foot-six,” she retorts, holding her arms up as an assistant measures her chest.

“Those six inches are _basically_ two feet.”

The door opens with an audible creak and a short woman with greying hair and a bright purple robe walks through. “I am Ruth Perrault,” she says, “sorry for the delay. You must be Betty, dear.” She approaches Betty where she stands on the platform, ready to shake her hand, but pauses when she’s about a foot away. “Oh, dear.”

Betty’s gaze flicks to Jughead’s, a look of brief panic crossing her face. “Is something wrong?” she asks, lowering her arms.

Ruth clucks her tongue. “I had a vision,” she explains. “Dark grey for him: a warm charcoal, you know, and pastel for you. Backless. But I did not realize you would need more support.” She waves her hand at Betty’s chest. “Most of the girls I have seen are more flat-chested.”

Jughead tries to catch Betty’s eye again, hoping to send her some kind of comforting expression, but she’s staring directly into the ground, like she wants it to swallow her whole.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Ruth tells Betty, patting her shoulder. “Be proud of your breasts. Amélie, hand me the tape measure.” She retrieves it from her assistant and then wraps it around Betty’s waist. “Ah, _excellente mesure_.”

Ruth continues speaking in a parade of mixed French and English phrases. Jughead ignores much of it and misses the rest, because Betty is smiling a little now, pleased by the fruits of her strict adherence to the all-important Meal Plan. She even meets his eyes again, an opportunity that he takes advantage of to cross one eye and then the other, which makes her laugh.

Jughead beams; as Ruth would say, _un grand succès._

(Later, when they walk out of the studio, Jughead drapes an arm over her shoulder and casually says, “I mean, _I’m_ proud of your breasts.”

Betty’s jaw drops slightly, then she dissolves into giggles.)

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He walks into Elle and Clark’s house three hours later, after a lovely afternoon spent walking around Old Montreal with Betty, the recent memory keeping a smile on his face.

Amie, the precocious five-year-old, is waiting for him with a makeup bag under her arm and her hands on her hips. “Jughead,” she declares matter-of-factly, “it’s time to paint your nails.”

 

* * *

 

There are a lot of things Betty likes about Montreal. The city, and particularly its older sections, has a quietly cinematic quality that makes her feel like anything is possible, like her own dreams are just a whisper away from reality. She loves the culture and the little boutique shops and the cafés that provide her with two cups of delicious coffee when she’s on her way to collect Jughead at four-thirty on a Saturday morning. Her host parents, Louise and Guillaume, are kind to her, and much different than the suffocating parental presence she’s accustomed to. She’s well aware - almost painfully so - of how impossibly fortunate they are the Sophie and Luc wanted to coach them. She grew up watching them in YouTube videos and on live-streamed skating events, starry-eyed, and the first time Luc pulled her into his arms to demonstrate a step to Jughead, she’d genuinely thought she was going to faint. Their coaches are _Richard and Hansard._ They’re training with the very, very best.

The very, very best coaches mean that Betty is a very, very lucky young skater, but she is also, at times, a very, very homesick one. Everything is different in Montreal, from the flag hung in the rafters of the rink to the language most of the conversation is in to the weight of the expectations on her shoulders. She is no longer Betty Cooper, a girl who figure skates, but ice dancer Elizabeth Cooper. All the little comforts of home, the things that grounded her when she felt overwhelmed or unsure, are gone. She can no longer look out her bedroom window and catch sight of the familiar walls of Archie’s room and his perpetually unmade bed; in Montreal, no one returns her gaze and smiles and mimes out dying at the hands of their Biology textbook. Her sister is no longer just a few steps down the hall, her bed warm and her hand soft in Betty’s hair in the middle of the night when her heart was racing too fast and she felt like she needed to cry. She can no longer have conversations with Kevin Keller about completely normal things, things that aren’t skating, like books and music and the latest silly celebrity gossip. She left all of that behind.

All of it but Jughead.

In Canada, miles and miles and a national border away from their birthplace, he becomes her home.

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On Saturday, they end up on his couch, their heads at either end, their legs tangled in the middle. Betty always has the best of intentions, and tonight they were supposed to eat their “dessert” (a couple slices of sweet potato topped with cashew butter) and then work on the French homework they’re supposed to bring to their class on Monday. But their mutual exhaustion won out over her good intentions, and they’ve ended up staring at a marathon of _Love It or List It_ through tired eyes.

The day’s practice was tough. After three hours on ice, their chemistry coach, Henri, joined them for some off-ice work. He’s never fully satisfied by the _fire_ between them, and has seemed, as of late, even more disappointed in her. Apparently Jughead has learned to touch her like a _woman_ , but she has not yet learned to touch him like a _man._ He made her run her hands over Jughead’s pecs and biceps and shoulders and back for a full ten minutes, until her cheeks were so hot she thought her head might burst into flames and finally deliver the fire Henri wanted, but he still seemed unimpressed by her attempts at flirtation by the end of it. After that, they went off to the gym, and she saw Jughead working hard with battle ropes in her peripheral vision.

After a shower, she headed over to his place. She tries not to cling to him - they spend so much time together by necessity, after all - but thus far he doesn’t seem to mind the constant nature of her presence. Sometimes at the rink she’ll try to give him space, and eat lunch just with Flora or stretch with Isabelle, who’s from France, but inevitably Jughead will show up and drop his pre-packed lunch in its tupperware containers down next to her own, or appear in front of her upside-down, rolling out his muscles, as she does a handstand against the wall. She checked with him, anyway (“Still want me to come over after?”) and he looked at her like she had at least two heads when he said “’course,” his sweaty hair falling into his eyes as he turned toward her.

Now, she’s got her bare toes stuck under his thigh for warmth, is cuddled happily into a USA sweater of his and a pair of Roots sweatpants (when in Rome, after all), and the very last thing she wants is to go home.

The family in the latest episode has decided to list their home rather than stay in it and enjoy all its new renovations. This fact makes Betty much sadder than it should; she wants, ridiculously, to tell them to stay, to explain to them that moving means that things will change forever. She closes her eyes and turns her face into the throw pillow she’s laying against.

She feels Jughead shift around a bit and hears him yawn. “It’s eleven, Betts,” he murmurs, and she can hear him set his phone back down on the small coffee table.

“M’tired,” she murmurs back, and hopes that maybe he’ll just let her fall asleep right there.

“I know.” He runs his hand over her calf, and even though he’s barely applying any pressure, the touch feels good on her sore muscles. “Me too.”

She turns her head out of the pillow and cracks her eyes open, regarding him through her lashes, which are still coated with a layer of waterproof mascara. “Let me stay,” she says, very softly.

Jughead sighs and heaves himself into a sitting position. Something indescribable flickers over his face, lingering in his eyes, and it’s strange - Betty’s so used to being able to read him. “I would if I could,” he says, grabbing one of her cold feet in each of his hands and giving them a squeeze. “But it breaks the rules. Louise would probably call your mom.”

Her bottom lip pokes out into a pout. She’s told her host mother that it’s not _like that_ between her and Jughead, but she got the distinct impression that Louise didn’t believe her.

“I don’t want to go back to my host parents’,” she admits, sitting up, too. They’re both crossed-legged, their knees pressing together. “I like Louise and Gui, but I feel like - I feel so lonely there sometimes.” She picks at the stray thread on the hem of his sweater that she’s wearing. “I miss my own room and Polly being next door and just… home.”

“I know you do, Betts,” he says, his voice gentle and sympathetic. “I know that I was probably a little more ready to leave Riverdale than you were.”

He probably was, she knows, but it wasn’t by choice - his mother and his sister were already gone. It feels selfish of her to complain when she knows how good this is for him. He practically has a whole floor a house to himself here, and she knows he’s come to adore little Amie quickly - the messy barbie-pink nail polish job he’s currently sporting is a testament to that.

“I know this is what we wanted,” she says. “I know this is what we worked for. I just… ”

Jughead reaches out and folds his arms around her, pulling her into him. She buries her face against his shoulder, nose pressing into his sweatshirt. He smells a little bit different than he used to, like the scent of a new laundry detergent. “It’s okay, babe,” he hums by her ear. “I get it.”

“Do you really think we can do it?” she whispers. She doesn’t have to clarify what _it_ is, just like she doesn’t need to clarify what she’s really asking: _do you think all of this is worth it?_

He holds her more tightly. “I know we can.”

“Not according to Henri,” she sighs.

Jughead stamps a kiss against her cheekbone and lets her go. “You’ve got to ignore him, Betts. You’ve got _plenty_ of fire. He just doesn’t know it yet.” He pats her knee. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“I drove here,” she reminds him.

“I’ll drive back with you.”

“And then how will you get back here?”

“I’ll walk.”

She shakes her head, laughing softly. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll just drive myself.”

“You sure?”

Betty smiles at him and lifts a hand to attempt to smooth out his rumpled hair; he laid down on it when it was still damp from his shower. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Call me when you get back, then.”

She rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. “Yes, _dad_.”

Jughead catches her hand with his own, their fingers weaving together naturally. She holds his index finger firmly between her own first finger and thumb, the way she does when they’re waiting for their names to be called at competition.

“I’m serious,” he says. “We can talk until you fall asleep, if you want.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, squeezing his hand. “I’m - I can be a big girl about this.”

Jughead walks her to the front door and hugs her goodbye. With her face pressed to his chest, she thinks that he might be growing even taller. She gets into her car and makes the quick drive back to her host family’s house, jogs lightly up the stairs, scrubs off what’s left of her eye makeup and applies all her skincare items, and then curls up under her floral-patterned comforter without bothering to change, even though she knows her sports bra will have left pressure marks on her shoulders and ribcage by the morning. She calls Jughead from her cocoon of blankets, and he picks up on the second ring.

“Make it home, or is this a ransom call?” he greets.

Betty drops her voice low. “We’ll return the skater if you give us two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Canadian or American?” Jughead volleys back, then adds, “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re mistaken. She’s worth way more than that.”

Something warm and pleasant blooms in Betty’s chest. “I’m in bed.”

There’s a weird beat of silence and then Jughead says, “Good. Still tired?”

“Sort of. You?”

“Sort of.”

“Goodnight, Juggie,” she says around a yawn. “Love you.”

“Love you back,” he says, soft and simple. She expects him to hang up the phone, but he doesn’t, and she finds that she’s not particularly inclined to press the red button that will end the call on her own phone, either.

She falls asleep to the sound of his slow, rhythmic breathing in her ear.

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Monday starts off with French lessons. They hand in their translation homework and get to work composing the sorts of sentences typically assigned to school children: the weather today is; this weekend I; my favourite activity is; I dream of travelling to. Betty manages the first one without having to consult the giant, ancient Robert-Collins dictionary between them ( _Il pleut aujourd’hui_ ), but Jughead squints at his paper with his brows knit together. He’s good with words, but not with languages, she’s learned. She taps the eraser end of her pencil against her paper to get his attention, and with a sigh, he begins copying out her answer on his own paper.

They do the next couple sentences together, struggling a bit with past-tense conjugation. This weekend I rested. _Pendant le weekend je me suis reposé._ My favourite activity is skating. _Mon activité préférée est le patinage._ The teacher stops at their desks, looks at their identical answers, and regards them with a compassionate sort of disapproval.

“Vous deux ne serez pas toujours ensemble,” she says, and gives Betty a look that needs no translation: _let him do his own work._

“What did she say?” Jughead whispers once Madame Balfour has moved on.

She’s picked up enough French by now to easily translate _toujours ensemble_ to _always together_ , and she recognizes the pairing of _ne_ and _pas_ as indicators of the negative. Their teacher wants Betty to understand that she won’t always be around to help Jughead with his French, but she’s wrong. They are _toujours ensemble._ They always have been.

“Nothing important,” she says. “Where do you dream of travelling to?”

With assistance from both Betty and good old Robert and Collins, Jughead writes, _Je rêve de voyager aux Jeux Olympiques._ She writes _Je rêve de voyager à Paris_ , to be different, but even Madame Balfour must know that in truth, her dream is the same as his.

“I was made to be unilingual,” he groans from the passenger seat of her car as they idle in the line-up of the Tim Horton’s drive-thru, a pit stop on the way to the rink.

“You were made to be a skater,” Betty corrects, rummaging around in her wallet; Canadians have so many coins. “And you’re doing that.”

“You can admit that I’m bad,” he says wryly, reaching over and covering both her hands with one of his own, stilling them. He hands her a blue five-dollar bill. “I won’t be offended.”

“You’re not, Jug,” she says, blinking at him, sort of stunned that he’d even suggest she’d say he’s bad at anything. “You’re learning.”

His eyes crinkle winsomely at their corners when he smiles at her. Betty forgets to move forward in the line until the car behind hers honks.

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Luc and Sophie waste no time launching into work for the day; as soon as Betty and Jughead are stretched and limber, they’ve got them running elements from their short dance. It’s their first year on the senior circuit and Skate America is fast approaching, and their coaches are determined that they’ll step onto the circuit with nothing short of a bang.

“You’re going to change every single conception everyone went into this season with regarding how the podiums will look,” Luc says, his eyes bright. “Every single one.”

And then he follows them around the rink, staying close, crouched over as he inspects the lower halves of their bodies, constantly demanding more from the bends of their knees.

The short dance this year is swing, for which Betty is grateful; she’d been mildly petrified that they’d have to step out as seniors doing hip-hop or something else they’re both still sort of awkward at. Swing is fun and punchy and fast: Sophie’s choreographed them a quick and challenging number to Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood,” and Betty loves all the quick footwork, the sharp kicks, the fast turns. She gets to practice in a short, flowing skirt so that she can flip it around in time with the accents in the music. She loves her costume, with its flirty hem and crinoline underskirt, and she loves the suspenders they’ve put Jughead in, which she gets to snap once during the choreo.

“Ba-da-ba- _ba_ -ba - _yes!_ ” Sophie calls from the boards when they hit their musical cues just the way she’d like them to. Betty laughs breathlessly when Jughead twirls her beneath his arm. When practice goes well with this routine, it’s magical, and it makes the move feel like the best - like the _only_ \- choice they could’ve made.

“Musicality! Of! Champs!” Luc cheers, ever exuberant, as he whizzes by them on his skates, punctuating each word with a pump of his fist into the air.

Sophie smiles indulgently at her husband’s antics as Betty and Jughead skate over to her, breathing hard. “You felt that, didn’t you?” she asks, looking back and forth between them. “When you’re right there with the music, that’s how skating feels. Try to find that every time.”

Betty nods as Jughead rests his forearm against her shoulder and his head on his forearm, leaning against her dramatically, like he’s too tired to keep himself upright. “Sto-op,” she giggles, but when she goes to step away his arm loops around her middle, keeping her where she is, and he straightens up again, pulling her back against his chest.

Sophie watches them with one corner of her mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward. “Let’s do the lift,” she says, and waves them back out to centre ice.

The lift is the hardest one they’ve ever done, far harder than what Penny and Lawrence used to choreograph for them. It involves Jughead supporting her partially while she effectively cartwheels through the air, ending up with her knees on either side of his hips and her ankles crossed behind her as she leans backward, arching her back as elegantly as possible. As her arms hit their final extended position with a flourish, Jughead lifts one leg off the ice, leaving them in a more precariously balanced position than they’re used to. When Luc and Sophie had first demonstrated the move for them, flying through positions like they were doing something as simple as strolling down the sidewalk, Betty had briefly believed she was going to start hyperventilating, and Jughead had grabbed her elbow when she swayed. They’ve workshopped it off-ice a thousand times - first with a helmet on her head, then without - and for the past few weeks they’ve been doing it full out during their routine. There’s always a swooping feeling in her stomach when she knows the counts are coming up and she’s preparing to throw her body, and every ounce of its momentum, into Jughead’s arms, but it all comes down to the simple fact that she trusts him.

She trusts him to catch her. And he always does.

The execute the lift pretty solidly on their first try (not their best, but certainly not their worst), and as they let themselves glide over to their coaches, awaiting their critiques, Betty hears applause. She turns toward the sound and is startled to see their manager, Cassidy, standing by the boards and clapping for them. Cassidy lives in Montreal, and was recommended by a colleague of Luc and Sophie’s, but they hardly ever see her in person, communicating primarily via e-mail and by phone. And she’s never shown up at the rink unannounced.

“That was _amazing_ ,” Cassidy says, leaning over the boards to give each of them a hug. “You two were always great, but somehow you’re even better now!”

“Thank you,” Betty says politely. “I - we didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Cassidy tells her. “And deliver ad exciting piece of news in person.” She waits for a beat to create suspense and then announces, “ _Teen Rogue_ wants to do a photoshoot with you two.”

“What?” Betty asks. “ _Teen Rogue_?”

Cassidy nods. “They’d like nothing more than to have two up-and-coming skaters be the models for their prom issue.”

“Prom?” Jughead asks, a solitary note of disdain creeping into his voice.

“We’re only sophomores,” Betty says. If they were still at home, they wouldn’t be attending Riverdale High’s prom for two more years. She wonders, abruptly, if they would go together. As friends, of course.

“You’re also incredible athletes who’ve got people talking, and you look great together,” Cassidy says. In a slightly softer voice, she says, “This is _great_ exposure, particularly for athleisure brands that might be interested in how you photograph. And there’s a paycheck, of course.” Her eyes slide momentarily in Jughead’s direction.

Betty turns to her partner, too. She’s never done a real photoshoot before, and the prospect of having a typical high school moment, even if it’s manufactured, is tempting. And she knows they’re always on the lookout for sponsors, brands who are willing to invest in them and their career.

With a quirk of her brow, she asks Jughead _what do you think?_

He shrugs in return, as if to say, _your call._

“Okay,” she says slowly, turning back to Cassidy. “We’ll do it.”

It’s no prom-posal, with flowers or teddy bears or a huge ridiculous sign, the kind of stuff Archie will likely do for his girlfriend when prom season descends on Riverdale. It’s not even real. But all the same, Betty finds herself smiling at nothing as they cross the ice to meet up with their coaches again.

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The Saturday of the shoot starts early. _Teen Rogue_ sends a limo to pick them up when the sun hasn’t quite yet finished rising. Betty laughs when she jogs down the front steps in her leggings and Nike sweater to see Jughead stepping out onto the sidewalk and holding the door open for her, bowing exaggeratedly. She catnaps against his shoulder on the drive.

The limo takes them to Hotel St. Paul, where the atrium has been decorated for a modern, metropolitan prom, much different from the decor Betty once expected to see in her high school’s gymnasium. She’s whisked away for hair and makeup almost immediately and makes small talk with her stylists while her perfect foundation shade is determined.

“So,” her makeup artist says conspiratorially, “that partner of yours. Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” Betty says sweetly, in her best talking-to-the-press voice. She’s glad her eyes are shut for eyeshadow application. “We’re best friends.”

The first outfit they put her in is quintessential prom: a royal blue dress with a skirt that has some poof and a bejewelled sweetheart neckline, her hair curled into pretty waves, a bunch of bracelets on her wrists. Jughead finally reappears while her stylists are mulling over shoe selection, and she feels shy at the sight of him, her heart fluttering wildly for an instant. He’s wearing a black suit and a crisp white shirt and a bowtie when he’s steered into a chair to have his face powdered. It’s the most dressed-up she’s ever seen him; he has a single blazer in rotation for skating galas that he tends to wear with dark-wash jeans.

“Hey,” he says to her as the makeup artist descends on him.

“Hey,” she replies, concentrating on stepping carefully into a pair of silvery heels.

It’s when they’re being shepherded into the atrium that he says, softly, “You look really good.”

“So do you, Jug,” she replies easily. Something stops her from taking his hand.

The posing is awkward at first - they’re not used to this kind of static performance. They pose at first like they’re actually taking photos at prom: arms around each other as they smile directly at the camera, her back to his front with his arms looped easily around her waist, pressed close together with her hand against his chest. They seem to take one thousand shots of Betty pinning a boutonniere to Jughead’s label, and then a thousand more of her pretending to adjust his bow tie. They pose with their backs to the camera like they’re walking away, Betty glancing back over her shoulder in a way that’s supposed to be flirty or sultry or _something_ , so the photographer can capture the detail on the back of her dress. They pose holding crystal tumblers full of grape juice. Jughead sits on a couch and Betty sits on the floor between his knees, the skirt of her dress spread around her, and tries her best to smize in this position that’s really much more suited to commercial models than to amateur athletes who don’t have a clue what they’re doing. All the while, the photographer encourages them to be natural, and Betty wishes she could explain to him that their natural habitat is much, much different than this.

They separate again to get changed, and this time Betty’s dressed in a magenta gown that’s much more slinky, her hair twisted up into a chignon. Back on set, she finds that Jughead’s lost his suit jacket and tie and gained a pair of suspenders, and it’s automatic, a piece of choreography ingrained in her muscle memory, when she gives them a playful snap, like they’re right in the middle of their short dance.

“There it is!” the photographer calls, clicking away frantically. “Keep that, use that - give me that joy, give me that chemistry.”

From behind him, his assistant suggests, “Why don’t we have them dance?”

So they dance. Jughead waltzes her around the room and twirls her in and out of his hold, dips her low in a way the photographer asks them to repeat again and again. They slow dance: Betty loops her arms around his neck and Jughead folds his arms around her waist and his fingers brush softly against all the skin the low back of her dress leaves bare. Betty lays her cheek against his shoulder and toys idly with his boutonniere, forgetting for a moment that she’s supposed to be posing, but the photographer isn’t angry - rather, he’s basically cheering in a hushed whisper, darting around them to get every possible angle of the shot. She keeps her eyes on the flower pinned to Jughead's lapel and listens to his breathing, each exhale matching the trailing movement of his fingers down her spine. Heat spikes in her cheeks and fades away slowly, and she's too caught up with arranging herself correctly in their next set of poses that she doesn't find time to wonder why.

Her third dress is short, and without restrictive fabric around her legs, they really get a chance to shine. Jughead tosses her into the air and catches her in the cradle of his arms like she’s a child or a bride. She stands on his thigh with one leg extended in arabesque behind her. He spins her around in a loop lift like they’re little kids again. Their onlookers keep bursting into spontaneous applause. Betty smiles a bright, genuine smile, not her smile for cameras but her smile for Jughead, for skating. She has fun, lifting her arms to the ceiling as he peers up at her where she’s posing in his hold with a genuine smile of his own.

The day ends, for Betty, in a yellow dress that makes her feel like she belongs in a Disney movie, and with relief shining in his eyes, Jughead is finally allowed to undo the first couple buttons of his dress shirt. They get into the limo from early in the morning and take photos like they’re exhausted from a fun night. They were asked to bring their skates and for the very last shots they put them on, Betty’s white boots poking out from beneath her dress’ hem as they both smile at the camera, shoulders pressed together.

After many hugs and even more thank-yous, the limo takes them back to their host families’ homes. Betty’s back in her leggings and sweater, but she’s still sporting some fairly dramatic makeup and an elaborate hairdo. Next to her, Jughead inhales an entire bag of Smart Pop, white dust sprinkling onto his blue sweater.

“You’re gross,” she tells him lazily.

“Being beautiful is a lot of work,” he tells her through a mouthful. “Don’t know how you do it every day.”

The limo comes to a smooth stop in front of her house, first. Jughead brushes some of the popcorn dust off of himself. “Did you have a good prom, Betts?” He’s smiling his teasing smile, but there’s something in his eyes, and in his voice, that’s very earnest.

The kiss she puts against his cheek leaves a rosy pink lipstick print. “Better than the real thing.”

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In the days leading up to Skate America, Jughead begins to struggle with his twizzles. Betty gets it, she really does - they’re under an immense amount of pressure. Switching to the senior circuit means they have to skate a whole extra minute, which wears on their endurance despite how much training they’ve done. As Luc and Sophie’s students, both judges and audiences will be expecting a lot from them. She knows FP is going to be there and that his mother has made some vague promises about trying to attend. So when he messes up on the very last twizzle in the sequence one day, and stops executing them with the precision their coaches want in all subsequent practices, Betty understands why he’s in his head about it. And she knows that he knows, as well as she does, that there’s limited time left for him to get _out_ of his head and let his body do what they both know it can.

She doesn’t say anything during the drive to the rink, just lets him stare sullenly out of the window. By mutual, unspoken agreement, they’ve skipped their morning French class. When they arrive at the rink, he collects her bag from the backseat with his own, as he so often does, and hands it to her once they’re through the doors. She accepts it and places her hand on his back, rubbing briefly and softly between his shoulder blades.

 _I’m here,_ she means for the touch of her hand to say. _I get it. I know you can do it. I’m with you._ Judging by the thin smile he manages to give her in response, she thinks he understands.

She comes out of the women’s change room before he emerges from the men’s, and steps out onto the ice to start getting her muscles warm. As she skates laps, she watches the action at either end of the ice. At the end closer to the doors, Flora and Forrest are practicing a difficult serpentine sequence. They execute their steps in unison, curving along the ice, and then stop to talk something through. As they move out of their dance hold, Forrest gives his sister’s shoulder a brief, reassuring pat before they begin demonstrating a section of the sequence to one another.

Across the ice, Sophie and Luc are working out a piece of choreography that Betty thinks looks like something from the French team’s free dance. Betty knows their music nearly as well as she does her own, a sweeping, romantic piece that ends with quiet notes of tragedy. She watches her coaches take long strokes away from each other before turning, on the exact same beat, and rushing back into an embrace, whirling around in each other’s arms once before Sophie begins a Biellmann spin, Luc’s arms around her and one of his skates lifted. They finish the spin, seemingly satisfied, and the music keeps on playing, swelling to its crescendo.

 _Mon amour,_ the singer laments, and Luc sings those words to his wife, his eyes almost overflowing with tenderness. Sophie tilts her chin up for a kiss, and Betty suddenly finds the ice beneath her blades extremely interesting.

She doesn’t look up again until a body appears next to her own, skates stroking at the exact same tempo, and a hand finds hers and squeezes. She lifts her eyes to Jughead’s face and finds something soft in the gaze that meets hers, something that gives her the strangest sense of déjà vu, like she’s flashing back to mere moments ago, a similar expression on a different face.

_Mon amour._

“I’m sorry I’ve been so off,” he says. He releases her hand and wraps an arm around her waist instead. “I’ll be on today.”

“I know you will,” she says, wrapping an arm around him in return and letting her fingers curl lightly around a handful of the fabric of his shirt. That old soundbyte she gave, years ago in Rochester, worms its way into her brain. She catches sight of Flora sticking her tongue out at Forrest. She feels the comfortable ease with which Jughead’s hand settles into the dip of her waist, the familiar, welcome heat of his touch.

He’s the furthest thing in the world from a brother.

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Betty makes a high-pitched, squeaking sound of shock when they win Skate America, beating out the favourites, who will have to settle for silver. After Luc has gathered her and Jughead and Sophie into a gleeful bear hug that steals her breath away, she stares up at the scores again in disbelief. There are their names, at the very top: Cooper/Jones (USA). They won. They _won._

“Oh my god,” she says quietly to Jughead. “Oh my god.” Her hands are shaking, and he grabs both of them with his own. His palms are sweaty and his eyes look so, so blue.

“We did it, Betts,” he says.

She breathes a laugh and wrestles her hands out of his tight grip so that she can hug him, flinging her arms around his neck. He squeezes her back so hard that he lifts her right off the ground. The audience cheers loudly for them, for two kids from New York who are suddenly champions. This is a Grand Prix. They just won a Grand Prix.

“Oh my god,” she says for the millionth time, as Jughead sets her back down, gently, on her guards. His hand cups the back of her head - he’s messing up her bun, but she doesn’t care - and pulls away from her just enough to kiss her on the cheek. His aim is off, and his mouth lands on the corner of hers instead. She closes her eyes as their cheeks press together.

“We’re going to the Olympics, Juggie,” she whispers; knows it in her bones.

“You and me, Betty,” he says, his voice full of wonder, almost hoarse with it. His words cut through the roar of the crowd and the announcement about the flower ceremony’s start time. “You and me.”

 

 

 

to be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the amazing comments! please consider leaving some again here :)
> 
>  **as an fyi:** the remaining chapters are quite long. as a consequence it is taking us more time than is typical to finish editing, writing, and proofing the pieces. in order to ensure that we have adequate time, and so that we can make sure the last parts live up to our vision and expectations, the next update will not be next week, but in two weeks. thank you for understanding :)


	4. eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining us for chapter 4! Your authors feel the need to be quite frank and say: y'all, this chapter is over 30k words long and basically sucked our souls out of our bodies. If you read it, we'd appreciate it immensely if you commented - even if it's just a few words. Anonymous commenting is on, and we promise we don't bite.

 

 

_Just a perfect day,  
Problems all left alone..._

 

 

He can feel her heartbeat in his ribcage, strong and healthy, rhythmic like her footsteps. Its steady thudding is intimately familiar to him, as it should be; after all, the spaces between her breaths are the same as his. His fingertips pulse with an identical tempo as they dig into her skin, one hand curled around her waist, pulling her alongside him so that their hips align to form a clean line. He raises his leg at the same time that she lifts hers, and together their synchronized limbs circle up, around, and then back down to skirt the ice.

She pushes away from him, turning slightly, but his grip bruises her back toward him with a near-violent spin. She stops with her hands on his chest and a pointed, audible shred. Her lips are just millimetres from his, eyes lidded heavily, lungs rapidly inflating. He closes his eyes, rippling backward with the slide of her palm down his abdomen. Then he takes her hand and they move together again, with nothing in his ear but the delicate pants of breath from her beautiful mouth and the distant strains of _Tango Romantica,_ its sounds registered nearly irrelevant by the unexpectedly sharp intake of breath she gives when he drags his hand just beneath her chest. He’s a professional, always, until his planned touch elicits an unplanned gasp, and then he is only hers.

She’s his best friend, clearly, but she’s more than that and always has been. He knows her in ways nobody else does, and she him, but there are still spaces of his being that she hasn’t filled: parts that she hasn’t seen, corners that she hasn’t breathed into. It’s been essentially ten years of them together, ten years of nobody else but her, ten years of early mornings and moves and wins and losses, of irreplaceable companionship and memories.

It’s those years that he uses to fuse his hands to her skin. It’s those years that flash when their lips accidentally brush, once or twice or fourteen times, and it’s those years that sync their feet through the quick, jarring moves and almost aggressive, sensual touches of their short dance. The dramatic looks are for the act, for the _story_ in the dance, but his passion is for her.

And sometimes, when she raises her eyes to him after their final hold, he thinks her passion might be for him, too. And maybe that, more than anything, is why she hasn’t visited the places of himself that he desperately wants her to: she doesn’t need to. She’d settled him long ago.

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Jughead is standing in the locker room of their practice arena in Montreal, fresh off the ice at the rink where he’s pretty sure that he lives now, humming along with the chorus of his favourite Nine Inch Nails song as it plays through his tinny iPhone speakers. His phone buzzes on the bench, briefly interrupting the refrain - _bow down before the one you serve, you’re going to get what you deserve_ \- and his humming stops. He stuffs his sweaty training shirt into his trusted old duffel bag alongside the equally ripe pair of elasticized pants and socks that he’s just shed, notices that the notification reads _Betty Cooper,_ and is just about to reach for it to check the message - undoubtedly a text telling him to _hurry up, Jughead, we’ve gotta hit the road_ \- when Luc walks in.

“Hey Jug,” Luc greets, clapping him on the shoulder. “Oh hey, Nine Inch Nails! Good pick, but Jesus, you are _not_ old enough to know this song.”

Jughead pauses the music and looks at Luc. From the beginning, he’s given Jughead sort of a caring-uncle vibe, or perhaps like an older brother who’s _been there_ and wants to show him the ropes, in more ways than just on the ice. He and Sophie have always extended their presence and expertise to he and Betty, whether it be about skating or otherwise; and while Jughead hasn’t typically had much of a reason to take Luc up on it, with the absence of much interest on the parts of either of his parents it’s been nice to know that there’s an adult somewhere who cares.

 _“Pretty Hate Machine_ isn’t bound by the chains of time,” he states matter-of factly, picking up his phone. “Also, sorry, Betty just texted me, I should check -”

“Wants you to hurry up?” Luc guesses, his eyes twinkling.

Jughead scans the message, which confirms his suspicions, and nods. “Yeah, how did you -”

“Sophie is always impatient, too.” Luc chuckles and sits down on the edge of the bench. “You and Betty all set up for your meeting tomorrow night?”

Jughead shrugs. “I think so. Betty has most of the details,” he confesses, which makes Luc smile knowingly.

Jughead gets it, what that look is for; he’s not exactly known for his organization, definitely, especially compared to Betty. But he _is_ excited: after practice this morning, which was cut a bit short for this purpose, he and Betty are going to drive to Toronto for a meeting with a potential sponsor. General Mills - General _fucking_ Mills, the goddamn _Cheerio_ people - are interested in featuring them on a limited run, which is an offer that he knows he can’t pass up. They have a part-time business manager who will handle much of the negotiations, a somewhat loud man named Benjamin who seems like he’s always just a little bit rushed, but he’s based out of Toronto so they’ll be heading down alone.

“Still surprised you guys aren’t flying instead,” Luc comments.

“Ah, it’ll be nice to see some of the countryside,” Jughead dismisses. “Plus it’s cheaper, and we can take turns napping on the drive.”

“The countryside,” Luc repeats, laughing a little. “Beautiful countryside, indeed. Like … Oshawa.”

Jughead’s not sure exactly what the joke is, but Luc seems to be quite proud of himself, so he just gives him a little half-nod and slings his duffel bag across his chest. He picks up his other bag, with his skates securely zipped inside, and angles his head toward the door. “I better go before Betty kills me,” he says. “Thanks for letting us go early, Luc.”

“No problem, Jug.” Luc stands and walks with him to the door, holding it open for Jughead to slip through. “Sponsorships are important. My folks didn’t have all that much, and sponsorships were … well, they were everything. The only way Soph and I could’ve afforded to keep doing this.”

Jughead turns and looks at him, their eyes meeting briefly. Luc nods wordlessly, just a slight tilt of his head, and Jughead returns it with gratitude. “We’ll let you know how it goes,” he promises, then gives a small wave and pushes through the doorway to where Betty is waiting with a tapping, impatient foot.

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An hour later, once they’ve stopped off at each of their houses to exchange their skating bags with overnight duffels, then gone through a Tim Horton’s drive-thru (picking up mediocre coffee, sandwiches that are _okay,_ and a lot of unsolicited Canadiana), they’re finally on the highway. It takes them quite a while to actually leave the greater Montreal area, and it’s not until Betty sets the cruise control even amid an alarming volume of traffic that Jughead realizes that this is _not_ going to be like the often lonely drive between NYC and Riverdale.

Jughead opens the lid to Betty’s coffee for her, securing the tab on the first try - a miracle with these cups, he’s noticed - and offers it to her, positioning his hands so that she can easily grab it. “Should be cooled down enough now,” he tells her. “Thanks for driving the first leg.”

Betty accepts the coffee, takes a long sip, then places it back in the cupholder carefully. “No problem. We’ll probably have to stop about halfway so I can use the bathroom anyway - we can switch then?”

“Sure.” He settles back in the seat, adjusting it backwards just slightly. “Hard to believe we’ve been here for two years,” he comments.

“Mhm.” She changes lanes, speeding up a bit to pass a slower vehicle, then switches back once there’s a safe distance between them and the car they’ve just overtaken. “I still miss Riverdale, but … the skating opportunities here are so incredible. Luc and Sophie, Henri, Odette, I - even _this,_ getting a meeting with General Mills - this is what we dreamed of, Jug.” She looks over at him quickly, just long enough for him to see the shining excitement in her eyes, and it makes him smile.

“Definitely.” Jughead nods, turns his head, and looks out the window. “Do you miss Riverdale?” he asks.

“I mean, of course,” Betty replies. “Polly, my parents, our friends … but this is worth it, I think. It’s _been_ worth it, and it will be until … until we’re done.”

 _Until we’re done._ It’s something he’s been thinking of a little lately. They’re still in the early-to-mid stages of their career, finally attending important Grand Prix events with actual chances of winning, and it seems weird to be wondering - however theoretically - about retirement. He’s not even eighteen yet, and they have so many things left to accomplish, so much ground to cover, but he does wonder. Back home, Archie and the rest of their friends are looking at colleges, picking out majors, thinking about how to make the most of the last year of high school - and here, in Canada, he and Betty are thinking about the Olympics and about Worlds and athletic sponsorships, having nearly finished with most of their online classes already.

It’s so far from the life he thought he’d lead, years ago, but as he sits here in the passenger seat of Betty’s used Ford on the 401, Jughead feels content in the knowledge that despite all the early mornings and sore muscles and living away from home, he wouldn’t do anything differently. He’s never alone here, not really, not with _Betty,_ and for a kid that grew up wondering if his mom was going to be home to feed him or if his dad would be sober enough to walk, _not being alone_ counts for a lot.

 _Actually,_ he interrupts himself, it’s not just _a lot._ It’s everything.

And that, he realizes, isn’t just a gift she that she gave him.

She’s singing along to the radio now, her pretty voice following along wispily with Adele’s heartbreak. His heart gives a little pang.

It’s the gift that she _is._

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It takes them almost six hours, including a prolonged pit stop in Kingston for her to use the washroom, get gas, and for him to eat, but they make it to Toronto just after the sun has disappeared below the horizon of Lake Ontario. They’re staying at a hotel that’s situated between the Bell Lightbox and the Air Canada Centre, which makes Jughead immediately wish both that the Toronto International Film Festival was on and that they had tickets to an event at the ACC, neither of which, unfortunately, is true.

By the time they check in and unpack - they’re sharing a room, mostly for financial reasons, though they each have a queen bed - Jughead is hungry again. Gas station snacks do not a meal make, as he’d told Betty, so despite the fact that she looks like she’d rather just go to sleep, he drags her out to find food.

They’ve been to Toronto for competitions before, but their time here has largely been spent hovering in the back of rinks or nervously waiting in hotel rooms, so it’s a bit odd to have some spare time - however little it may actually be - to wander around. They’ll have a bit more time tomorrow, after their meeting, which Jughead knows Betty has already made some executive decisions about (Kensington Market area, she’d told him, is the top of their list, having been somewhere she’s apparently always wanted to check out but never had the time for). So tonight, he figures they’ll stick pretty close to the hotel - it’s getting late anyway, and one of their most important pieces of training is getting enough sleep.

However, three steps out of their hotel, that plan fades away.

The streets are lively, and it’s not yet winter or even late fall so the weather is good, too. There are a few food trucks parked along the street that seem to still be serving food, and even though he’s already eaten fairly poorly today and Betty’s perennial “not in my meal plan” is queued-up in his ear, he wants a taco. Or three.

“C’mon, Betts,” Jughead urges, slinging his arms around her waist playfully. “They have fish tacos, and chicken - it really isn’t _that_ bad.”

“I dunno,” she hedges, nibbling on her lower lip thoughtfully. One of her arms is tucked across her stomach, her hand touching her side. Jughead has no idea what she’s worried about - she has abs of steel right now, thanks to the near-constant training they’re going through to prep for the rigour of competition season, and they’ve both been working really hard. They deserve tacos.

“We can go for a run along the waterfront in the morning,” he bargains. “Have a taco with me. _Please -”_

Betty laughs softly and leans a bit closer to his body. “Okay,” she caves, “Only because I need to eat _something,_ and I guess I’m not going to find boiled chicken breast around here.”

Jughead pretends to gag. “This is much better than that,” he promises, dropping his arms and immediately taking her hand. It’s automatic, at this point; they hold hands almost always on the ice, and have since they were mere children. It’s natural, he thinks, that it bleed a little into their off-ice life.

Totally, totally natural.

They end up eating six soft-shell tacos in total - three for Jughead and two for Betty, with her third split between them - and Jughead gets a small basket of spiced fries for good measure. They eat slowly as they walk down the sidewalk, her picking at his fries, occasionally pointing out people or interesting things to one another but mostly not speaking. One street turns into the next, then the next, and before he knows it they’re crossing the Gardiner Expressway and have ended up at the waterfront.

It’s not quiet the way the banks of Sweetwater River are, nor is it self-assuredly epic the way that Manhattan’s seawall can be. There’s no Statue of Liberty to gaze at, no obvious grand history to immediately draw the eye, but it’s occupied and busy and seems to be loved all the same. There’s some kind of school, a Starbucks, an Enterprise Rent-A-Car - and then, seemingly out of nowhere, a series of odd, vaguely creepy statues.

“Ireland Park,” Betty recites, reading a sign that Jughead’s eyes had somehow passed by. “These are … interesting.”

“It’s eerie.” Jughead peers up at one, a man in old-style workman’s clothes with his hands extended toward the CN Tower. “Kind of unnerving. I like it.”

“You would,” Betty says wryly, clutching at his arm. “Hey, it’s getting a little chilly. And late - we should probably start walking back.”

“Okay,” he replies absentmindedly, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He takes a few pictures of the statues, sending one to his sister without commentary and another to Archie, then shrugs his flannel shirt off and slips it over Betty’s shoulders.

“Oh, Jug, you don’t have to,” she protests, even as she moves her arms into the sleeves. “Aren’t you cold?”

He shakes his head, dismissing her concern. “I’m fine.”

Betty smiles gratefully and tucks the shirt closer around her chest. “It smells like you,” she comments.

“My apologies,” he chuckles, putting an arm around her shoulders to hopefully hasten her warmth. “Maybe by the time we get back, it’ll smell like you.”

“And what do I smell like?” she asks quietly, looking up at the lit tower as they walk slowly back toward their hotel.

Jughead presses a kiss to her head. “Like your shampoo,” he murmurs, not moving his lips from her hair. “Like roses. And something pretty.”

Betty giggles. “You’re such a sap,” she accuses, but her face has turned faintly pink and he knows she doesn’t mind.

They start walking back. His arm is still around her, still pulled close, and he feels just a little bit like he’s on top of the fucking world.

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They get the General Mills endorsement, after a little bit of haggling by Benjamin and a lot of excitable platitudes from the General Mills people. They’ll be on a limited run of cereal boxes leading through competition season and up to the Olympics, with the option for renegotiation and extension if they medal.

Jughead calls his dad in the hallway outside the office. Betty is beside him bouncing on the balls of her feet, equally elated as he is; this is everything he’s ever wanted, and he wants his dad - _needs_ him - to know.

After six unanswered rings, Jughead hangs up. He says nothing, concentrating instead on keeping a neutral expression so as not to impact Betty’s excitement for when she calls _her_ parents, but it doesn’t matter. She takes his hand immediately, clearly having noticed, and presses her forehead to his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, Juggie,” she says softly.

He closes his eyes and lowers his head to touch hers. “Back at you, Betts.” They stand there for another moment, until he clears his throat and she lifts her head. “Now c’mon, we have a little time to check out Kensington Market before we hit the road.”

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They get back to Montreal late on Thursday, after an incredibly long day of meetings and some mild sight-seeing. They’ve done a lot of walking and put in some time at the hotel gym over the last whirlwind thirty-six hours, but it’s been a nice break from the ice all the same, even though the trip had technically been for work. They have training again in the morning, and since it’s also their only day back at the rink before they leave again for a rare weekend in Riverdale, Jughead knows that Luc and Sophie are likely to drive them hard. Sleep, therefore, is of the utmost importance.

When Betty drops him off at Elle and Clark’s, she leans over and kisses his cheek. He feels a warmth rising on his skin and ducks his head away before she notices.

 _That’s not new,_ he tells himself with annoyance, _you don’t need to blush._

There’s a weird fluttering in his chest, too, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s probably just getting sick.

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At practice the next day, after nearly two hours of twizzles and another one and a half working on lifts, they run their dance seven times in its entirety. Finally, Luc calls them over to the side, and Jughead is exhausted as he skates to the boards with Betty’s hand in his. Henri, their chemistry coach, is already clapping, but he’s an enthusiastic person by nature and Jughead’s never quite sure how much stock to put in his reactions.

 _“En feu!”_ he exclaims, accentuating his point with a sharp flourish of his arm. Henri is so magnificently enthused in all of the ways Jughead finds most amusing, always, and he never fails to put a smile on Jughead’s face. “Perfect! I _feel_ the tension, the passion, _l’amour -”_

“Thanks, Henri,” Betty says with a breathless smile. “Juggie and I have been practicing looking dramatically at each other.”

“But we usually laugh afterward,” Jughead adds, draping an arm around Betty’s shoulders and accepting the water bottle that Luc hands him. He squirts some liquid into his mouth, then hands it to Betty, who does the same.

“Either way, your chemistry was _on it_ today,” Henri continues. “Wasn’t it, Luc?”

Their coach nods approvingly. “You had the passion, the intensity -”

“That’s my raw animal magnetism,” Jughead interrupts, winking exaggeratedly at Betty. “Girls can’t resist.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh please. Name _one_ girl that couldn’t resist you.”

“Can’t say. My eyes only notice you, Betts.”

“I hate you,” Betty informs him affectionately, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She’s blushing slightly, his favourite thing, and he smiles back at her until Luc clears his throat to interrupt them.

“If you two are done,” he begins, giving Jughead a look that seems too knowing, “then I can finish. What I was going to say was that yes, the feeling is there, but we need to work on your lines more. We need to accentuate the curves in the dance. Lift your legs up higher in the last third - if it’s sore, hit the gym again. Run it 'til it’s not. We can pick it up again on Monday. Don’t be rusty. Okay?”

Betty nods fervently. She’s agreeable, always; it’s made her an excellent skater and an even better friend, but Jughead thinks it also hurts her at times. Today is their last practice before they go home for a few days, back to Riverdale for homecoming - they’ll miss the event itself, but there are a couple of related activities that they’ll get to take part in with their former classmates - and Jughead has been looking forward to the no-training nothingness of the weekend.

“We’ll keep up our levels over the weekend,” she promises.

Jughead watches the minute tightness in Betty’s jaw and decides, _no._ So instead of nodding along with her, he clears his throat. “Luc -”

“I know what you’re going to say, Jug,” Luc interrupts, holding up a hand. “And I’m sorry, I know you guys wanted a bit of a break this weekend. And you can have one - just get a couple workouts in too, okay? You’re so close. Push through.”

Jughead sighs but nods; he gets it. After all, this is what they’re here for, what everyone is here for. In the next two months, they’ll skate at a few qualifying events, notably Nationals, and then they’ll know whether or not they become one of the youngest ice dancing pairs to go to the Olympics. The last two years have been all about these months, and Jughead’s not going to jeopardize that for Betty just because of a wishful sleep-in.

“Whatever it takes,” he agrees, dropping his hand from Betty’s shoulder to her hip. Like always, she’s wearing thermal long sleeves and leggings that may as well be painted on, and also like always, he has to fight to stop himself from touching her too much once they’re done skating. It’s usually a failure, but Betty never seems to mind whether his hand is on the curve of her ass or if he’s rubbing her knee or anything else, so he’s stopped trying as hard.

They run it once more, with his calves burning the whole time, then Luc lets them leave. Jughead changes quickly in the men’s locker room, then meets Betty out front. Her hair is out of its ponytail now, all messy waves around her shoulders, the way he likes it. She’s traded her black thermal top for a looser fitting cream-coloured sweater that gives Jughead the inexplicable urge to dip his tongue into the hollow of her throat.

He only drags his eyes away when she gives him a little smile, saying, “Ready to go?”, then he follows her out of the rink.

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On most Thursday evenings, after he's eaten dinner with Elle, Clark, and Amie, Jughead sits down at his computer, throws on headphones, and plays video games online with Archie.

It's been a nice tradition starting since about the third month that he's been in Montreal; he likes video games, Archie likes video games, and it gives him both a reason and an opportunity to catch up on the week's events with Archie. Even though they haven't lived in Riverdale for a while now, Jughead still feels as though he's tapped into the events of home: drama at the high school, rumours of fights on the south side, even political battles between Sierra McCoy and Hermione Lodge. Betty's mother provides her with regular updates, too, but since Jughead gets to hear about everything from Archie (usually plus more about Veronica and how _amazing_ she is, _really Jug she's it for me,_ and all that), he imagines that his news has a bit more of a sweeter, innocent lens than Alice would provide.

Today, though, Jughead isn't going downstairs to play games. Tomorrow they'll head home, bright and early, and he'll actually get to see Archie and everyone in person, so tonight Betty is coming over after dinner to help him pack.

Officially, Betty's presence is strictly a social one - "maybe we can watch a movie" - but Jughead knows what this is. She has no faith in his ability to shove flannel and jeans into a backpack (rightfully so, he admits), and this appearance is really about placating her own nerves around him sleeping in and not being ready to go.

("It only happened _once,_ " he'd insisted to Betty, "and we were going to _Buffalo,_ so who gives a shit?", a phrase which hadn't gone over well with her.)

Either way, Jughead's not going to complain about her coming over. He likes her presence, never gets tired of her, ever, even though they spend what is altogether probably too much time together. Being with Betty is easy without being dull, safe without being boring, comfortable without the growing gut and sweatpants that seem to archetypically be associated with that feeling. She's fun, too, in unexpected ways, constantly surprising him with a lame joke or a harmless prank to keep things interesting, and he loves her.

Platonically, of course.

Definitely, definitely. Obviously, she's gorgeous. Obviously, she's funny and sweet and smart and driven. Obviously, all of those are attractive qualities. But he knows a lot of people who theoretically could tick those boxes. That's not what makes Betty stand out, not to him. No; for him, it's her kindness, her smile, all the ways that she knows him without prompting - _that_ is why he loves her.

Again, platonically.

"I don't know who you two are trying to fool more, everyone else or yourselves," Archie had said to him once, to which Jughead had scowled and changed the subject. He doesn't need interference from anyone, not when it comes to her: he knows her, loves her, needs her in a lot of ways and for a lot of things. Not all of those things fit in boxes, not the way that people want them to. She’s his friend and his family and sometimes something else, a little bit, and he doesn’t owe any of it to anyone but her. What they have is undefinable, Jughead thinks, and even if nobody else understands it, _they_ do. And that's all that matters.

When she comes over, she's wearing a pair of rolled-up khaki pants and a button-front tank top with tan-coloured sandals that makes her look sort of like she's about to go on a safari or an expedition. He tells her as much immediately, playfully adding, "You're just missing the hat."

Betty frowns at him, skimming her khakis with her fingertips. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Nothing, you look gorgeous like always," Jughead assures her seriously, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they head down the stairs. "Now Indy, let's start talking about how we can find the ark of the covenant."

She giggles, pushes at his side, and sticks her tongue out at him. "I hate you."

"That's not even remotely true," he informs her, grinning.

Betty sighs faux-dramatically and pushes past the door into his bedroom, where she immediately picks up his backpack and duffel bag. "You're right," she replies thoughtfully, turning to look at him. "Not even remotely."

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The next day, bright and early, they fly home.

Betty’s parents pick them up at the airport in NYC and drive them back to Riverdale because the only bus of the day isn’t supposed to leave until the evening. They spend the hour-long drive sleeping in the backseat with a pillow propped between their heads, a system they’d perfected years ago. When they get to Riverdale, Jughead gets dropped off at Sunnyside. He talks briefly to his dad, who’s just gotten back from work (he’s started working for Archie’s dad again, which while hard, is at least honest work), and showers quickly.

Then, after a tragic hour and a half apart, Jughead puts an old, comfortable sherpa jacket on and walks to Pop’s to meet Betty.

She’s ridden over with Archie, who’s also brought his girlfriend Veronica. Jughead doesn’t mind Veronica, really - they don’t have much in common, so he doubts they’ll ever really be friends, but she makes Archie happy so he’s attempted to tolerate her. At the same time, her presence tends to exhaust Jughead on many levels, and as he walks over he finds himself wishing just slightly that it was only himself, Betty, and Archie. Or even just Betty.

Betty, Veronica, and Archie are sitting in a booth already when he arrives. Jughead gives a little wave and stops at the counter to shake Pop’s hand and place his order before heading over to join them.

“Hey, Jug,” Archie greets.

“Hey Arch. Veronica.” Jughead slides in beside Betty, who he knows must truly be tired - she’s obviously also freshly showered, and her hair is still wet, though it’s wrapped up in a bun of some type on top of her head. He grins at her. “Long time no see.”

Betty laughs at that. She seems like she’s about to reply, but just as she opens her mouth, a waitress slides a cup of black coffee in front of Jughead. She looks at it and sighs. “Oh, I should’ve -”

The waitress returns with another, as well as a plate of fries. The coffee is slid in front of Betty, and the fries are set between the two of them. Jughead thanks the waitress, lathers a fry in ketchup, then pops it into his mouth.

Betty rubs his arm in wordless thanks. He shrugs it off; despite her largely caffeine-free lifestyle, Betty does have a bit of a secret-shame habit of black coffee late at night, and today didn’t seem like it would be an exception to that.

“How did you know she wanted a coffee?” Veronica asks, puzzled.

Archie gives a laugh and slings an arm around her. “I _told_ you, Ronnie, they’re one person.”

“We’re not one person,” Jughead cuts in, oddly annoyed by that, “we’re just ... inside each other’s heads.”

“That’s a pretty accurate way of putting it,” Betty admits, sipping her coffee. Jughead glances at the door and waits for it - one, two, three beats, then as expected: _“Ah._ Sweet nectar.” She wraps her hands around the mug and sits back in the booth, then leans into Jughead’s side. “Thanks, Juggie.”

He squeezes her knee under the table, something he’s come to do frequently in the kiss-and-cry, and bites back a smile when he feels her press her leg further against him. He moves his hand up, fingers curling around her denim-covered thigh, and rubs gently with his thumb. It’s been hard for him to hide his affection for her lately, whether it’s inappropriate or not, but she’s usually a lot more stoic about it.

As Veronica begins to talk about cheerleading, Betty shifts slightly in her seat. One of her hands moves from her coffee mug to her lap, and for a moment Jughead shifts _his_ hand back toward her knee, worried that she’s not okay with his touch since there are other people around.

But then, she places her palm atop his knuckles, slips her fingers between his, and secures his grip higher. With her hand still over his, Jughead squeezes her thigh firmly, finding the place where he holds her during the third lift of their free dance. She strokes the back of his fingers with her thumb, a reassuring _this is fine,_ then drops her temple to his shoulder.

Jughead can see Veronica watching them, dark eyes flashing with intrigue, and chooses to ignore her. He knows what the questions are, and by now it’s crystal clear to him that there are no answers - at least not any that satisfy other people. “So Arch,” he says conversationally, tapping into a subject that he knows even Veronica can’t interrupt, “what’s going on with the Bulldogs? You guys making it to state this year, or what?”

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For a split second the next morning, when he wakes up to his alarm at six-thirty, a lump in the couch cushion poking uncomfortably into his back, Jughead thinks he’s gone back in time.

It’s odd, waking up here; he’s been in Montreal for two years now and has grown accustomed to the spotty pattern on the tiles of his basement bedroom’s drop ceiling. He hasn’t seen the dusty slats that form the ceiling of his dad’s trailer at this time of day since the _last_ time he and Betty had been instructed to get a workout in at home - Christmastime, nine months ago. Before that, though, when this couch was still his only bed, he did this often: almost every day, in fact, he’d wake up with the moonlight and shuffle half-asleep to the rink.

Today, he’s doing the same thing, only instead of going to the rink, he’s borrowing his dad’s truck to drive himself and Betty to an early pilates class across the river in Greendale. The focus on resistance work, muscle control, and posture should help his back, which has been sore lately (the couch this weekend, he knows, will certainly _not_ help), and he and Betty will be sufficiently stretched-out and warmed up for the run they have planned after.

Jughead pulls his clothes on, then walks down the hall to his dad’s bedroom to grab the keys from atop his dad’s dresser. FP is asleep when the door creaks open, but stirs at the sound of the keys moving; he rolls over, opens one eye, and grumbles, “Where you goin’?”

“Workout,” Jughead explains. “Go back to sleep, Dad.”

FP stretches, his arms raising over his head in a way that Jughead identifies as his own, and yawns. “You work too hard, kid.” He rolls over, facing away from the door, and adds, “Say hi to your girl for me.”

Jughead draws the inside of his lower lip between his teeth, biting against a smile at the sentiment that he knows he can’t enjoy. _His girl,_ he thinks, his. “Will do,” he replies, then closes the door again.

He shoots Betty a text that reads _be there in five,_ and three minutes later he’s outside her house. She’s obviously been watching because she runs out seconds later with a bouncy ponytail and a backpack over her shoulder, and hops in his truck.

“Morning!” she chirps, plopping her bag on the floor and strapping herself in. “Haven’t been in this truck for awhile.”

“Me neither.” Jughead raises an eyebrow at her beaming smile. “You’re too peppy for this time of day.”

“Oh come on, it’s like two hours later than we used to have to get up with Penny. Plus, it’s pilates, it’s not like you have to throw me around this morning.”

He glances at her sidelong, taking notice of her bright, shining eyes, and shrugs with an intentionally cocky half-grin. “That sounds like _your_ loss, Betts.”

She tucks her chin away as the truck starts to move, hiding her face, but Jughead catches a flash of her flushed ears and turns back to the road with his chest a bit warmer. He’s being cheesy, and it’s stupid because he _knows_ he’s barking up the wrong tree, but the little smile that appears on her face whenever he flirts badly is worth everything.

As he turns onto the highway, Betty unbuckles her seatbelt and slides over on the bench seat to sit right next to him. She kisses his cheek and buckles back in, and she doesn’t move away.

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Two and a half hours later, once they’re through with pilates and have returned Jughead’s dad’s truck to the trailer park, they head to Sweetwater River. When it’s not raining, autumn in Riverdale is slightly warmer than in Montreal. Today the sun is streaming through the trees down toward them, so when they reach the trailhead at the river, Jughead sheds his pullover. Betty follows suit, revealing the white _everything hurts and I’m dying_ tank top she’d worn to pilates, and they hide their sweaters in the trees to pick up later.

The act itself stirs something in Jughead’s heart that makes him miss this place more than he already does. Montreal is a beautiful city, but their schedules there typically end up dictating that runs or other cardio workouts occur in a gym setting, and even if they were able to get out they certainly wouldn’t be leaving personal effects anywhere outside with the full expectation of them still being there upon their return. But here, in the small town that nurtured them both, that’s possible. There is crime - a lot of it, to be sure, but it’s always been of a decidedly more dramatic type than the theft of a couple of USFSA pullovers.

They start running at a medium pace, Jughead matching Betty step-for-step and vice versa, and when they fall into a comfortable lockstep he starts to take in his surroundings. The trees are turning, so the forest is aflame with new autumn colours, the leaves already beginning to blanket the ground. It reminds him of the leaves on the ground of Sunnyside - always multiple layers from months of inattendance, built thickly until either the wind and the rain sweep them away or they’re covered by snow. Jughead has seen these trees turn every year of his life, and while he is well aware that it’s a universal event for places with deciduous forests, it still feels quintessentially like home. The trees are Riverdale, the water just beyond is Riverdale, and the people are Riverdale, for better or for worse. He wishes they could come home more than they do, but Nationals are coming up and that - everything they’ve worked for - has to take precedence.

After about twenty minutes, they reach a clearing in the trail and eventually slow to a brisk walk. There’s a deer about fifty feet away, stepping carefully through the trees, and when Betty spots it she grabs Jughead’s hand. “Look!”

He notices and squeezes her hand to let her know. “Cute little guy.”

“It’s a girl,” she informs him. “Doesn’t have antlers.”

“Fine. Cute little girl.” Jughead stops walking abruptly and steps out in front of Betty, blocking her path. “Always gotta correct me, huh?”

Betty quirks her head to the side, a smile playing on her face. “Knowledge is power, Juggie.”

“Strength is power too,” he remarks. A look of confusion crosses her face, and just as her mouth opens to follow up, he leans down and easily picks her up over his shoulder.

Hardly skipping a beat, she immediately braces her knees on either side of his hips and leans back, forcing him to let her slide down slightly. Jughead prepares for her to set her feet on the ground and twist away, declaring victory, but instead she locks her ankles behind his back and hangs her arms off his shoulders in a hug.

“I still love it here, but I don’t miss Riverdale as much as I used to,” Betty suddenly says, her voice just slightly echoing behind his ear. “And I think it’s because the only thing I _need_ to feel at home now is you.” She sighs, her body relaxing against him, and she whispers “thank you, Juggie,” into his ear.

Jughead swallows, afraid to reply. She’s been that for him - home - for years now, and honestly, it’s fucking terrifying: to have all of his hopes and dreams and emotions wrapped up in one individual, in one beautiful, incredible person, someone who just needs to glance up and realize that she’s so far beyond him that it’s almost unrealistic to stay here but does anyway. He holds her tighter, not caring that he’s probably squeezing bruises into the underside of her ass where her leg meets, and only lets her down when the flex of her legs eases against him.

“You’re the only person I’d ever do any of this with,” he tells her once she’s standing again, sliding his hands up her sides to clutch her ribcage. “Moving, skating, anything.”

“Same,” Betty says immediately, which makes him laugh a little.

“Oh come on, you’d have done all this anyway,” Jughead assures her, looking over to see if the deer is still there. “With some other lucky bastard.”

“No.” The word isn’t louder than her usual voice, but it _is_ firmer, more insistent, and he turns back to meet her eyes.

Betty is staring at him, her expression full of contradictions: bright and dark, old and young, heavy and light. She reaches a hand up and cards her fingers through his hair, pushing the sweep of it away from his face, and then she kisses him.

He’s been here once before, long ago, in the hallway of Riverdale Elementary School. Reggie Mantle had been teasing him, and after standing up for him, Betty had walked over and kissed him square on the mouth. He still remembers the brief press of her lips, shy and scared and young though they both were, and has long been privately pleased that his first kiss came from someone that he’ll always love.

But this - this is different. This is soft and shallow, at least at first, just the slight touch of their lips and then some added pressure. There’s a pull away from one another, searching eyes, and then a coming back together, and this time nobody is shy.

Betty’s tongue slips into his mouth with an almost rehearsed ease after his lips bruise against hers. Jughead walks her backward until her back is against a birch tree. His foot steps in between hers, one on either side, and he lifts one hand to cup her cheek. She tastes like minty toothpaste, even all these hours later, and he wonders briefly if she’s eaten a peppermint before she nibbles on his lower lip and his head starts to swirl.

They break for air. “Betty,” he pants into her neck, dropping his palm from her cheek to her waist. His other hand falls from her ribcage and slips beneath her shirt. He lets his fingertips play at the skin of her taut abdomen for a few moments, until Betty yanks his face back toward hers and kisses him again. Then, with his hips pressed into hers, Jughead reaches up and grabs her breast over her sports bra.

“Ohmigod,” she breathes into his mouth. Her fingers tug urgently at the hem of his shirt; he breaks from her just briefly enough so that she can lift it off, and when they move back together he quickly pushes the stretchy band of her bra up. Her left breast immediately fills his hand, soft and warm and heavier than he expected, and when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger she scratches her fingernails over his abs and makes a noise that instantly becomes his new favourite sound.

The snapping of a twig makes his head snap up. It’s a rabbit - Jughead can see the big male bounding away - but the distraction brings him back to the reality that he’s shirtless, pressing his partner into a tree with his hand up her bra, in public.

It seems to hit Betty at the same time, because her face, with pillowed lips and darkened eyes, is now wearing an expression of mild panic. “Juggie,” she breathes. “We shouldn’t - not here -”

“Yeah.” Jughead immediately drops his hands from her and takes a step back, glancing around. He picks his shirt up from the ground and puts it on while Betty fixes herself. His face feels flushed. “I’m sorry, I got carried away, I -”

“Me too,” she cuts in, grabbing his hands. “I … me too. Look, let’s - let’s head back, maybe.”

Jughead swallows and nods. “Okay,” he agrees, and steps back toward the trail. Betty takes off and he follows behind, his heart still racing and his body on fire. He just kissed his partner. No, scratch that - he just _made out_ with his partner, and if they hadn’t stopped he’s sure he would’ve done _more_ with his partner. Obviously, he’s attracted to her - he has eyes - but this _thing_ with them is a careful line they’ve never crossed, regardless of how much he might want to. What just happened in the woods may have changed everything, and not necessarily for the better.

When they get back to the trailhead, Jughead proposes that she come over - they should talk about this, _need_ to talk about this - but Betty declines, telling him that she’s tired and wants to take a nap before the homecoming party they’ve both committed to attending that evening.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she promises, then turns and runs toward the north side of town, leaving Jughead standing by the road.

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He tries to nap, but he can’t. Instead, Jughead lays awake in the bedroom of the trailer, flipping through his phone. His dad has gone off somewhere unexplained, leaving no notes or texts, which Jughead’s more than used to by now. Despite having planned to ask his dad about whether he is going to come see them skate at Nationals, Jughead’s actually semi-grateful for his absence this time. He doesn’t think he could hide anything about the way that he’s feeling right now, and for all of the things that his father _is_ , a reliable source of good advice is not one of them. He can only imagine that what his dad would tell him to do about Betty - if he even realized that he and Betty weren’t already together - would be probably the opposite of whatever he _should_ do.

Somewhere, Jughead thinks he _knows_ what they should do: nothing. This is all a very, very bad idea. But at the same time, if it all falls apart, Jughead’s not sure that it wouldn’t be worth it.

(He needs to stop thinking about this.)

First, it’s the internet on his cell phone, a hopeful distraction, and when that doesn’t work he decides to lean into his problem, scrolling through the endless photos of himself and Betty on his phone’s camera roll. She’s exquisite, he’s always known that. Her eyes are the purest shade of beautiful green he’s ever seen, and seeing them darkened today for him is something he doesn’t think he can ever forget. And yet, he _has_ to.

_...Right?_

Jughead opens his messages and texts Betty before he can think better of it. _I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable earlier,_ he says, swallowing what he can of his anxiety.

She replies a few minutes later. He waits another moment to open it, trying to summon the courage; if she’s feeling in any way like this is the biggest mistake of her life, he’ll soon find out. Jughead clicks her text, reads it, then drops his head back onto the pillow with a stupid smile.

 _You didn’t,_ she’s messaged. _I always feel better when you’re touching me._

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The next time Jughead sees Betty, it’s in the living room at Cheryl Blossom’s house. Cheryl is one of those people who he’s pretty sure nobody personally likes all that much - she’s rude to almost everybody, even the people that she purports to be her friends - but she has a huge house, rich parents, and a popular twin brother that everyone seems to be friends with, so her behaviour gets indulged a little more than Jughead would like. Either way, she’s hosting the big unofficial homecoming party, and he and Betty have both promised to come, so at around eight he begrudgingly tugs on an old flannel over his t-shirt and walks to Thornhill.

Betty’s there already, talking to Ethel Muggs by the window. He’s not sure if it’s just because they’d been making out hours earlier, but he’s very immediately aware of her body, which looks incredible in a short, dusky blue corduroy skirt and a white top that while long-sleeved, is tight enough not to leave much to the imagination. Her legs, always one of her best features, are particularly incredible right now, with all the extra practice they’ve been getting in; he has a feeling that all eyes will be on her tonight.

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks up to her and Ethel. “Hi Ethel, how are you?”

“Doing good, Jughead,” Ethel replies, smiling politely. “I was just wishing Betty good luck on all your upcoming skates.”

He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence, then Ethel claps her hands together. “Well, I’m going to grab a drink. Talk to you guys soon, hopefully.” She smiles and steps away, leaving Jughead standing with Betty in the corner.

“Bye, Ethel,” Betty calls after her, then glances at Jughead with what he recognizes to be slight nerves in her eyes. “Hi. Um, you look good.”

Jughead slips a hand onto her waist and tugs her gently against him, lowering his mouth to speak quietly into her ear. “You look … there’s no way to put it other than really, _really_ fucking hot.”

Betty’s cheeks burn bright red almost immediately, and she flutters her eyelashes at him. “Why thank you, sir,” she says in a teasing faux-southern accent, obviously trying to ease the tension between them.

He gets what she’s doing, but he needs her to understand, too. “I mean it, Betty,” he murmurs, setting his hand a little too low on her back. “I feel like a total Neanderthal, but _god,_ this shirt, your legs -”

“Shirt belongs to Veronica,” she admits, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Jughead’s still hovering close to her - too close, he knows, to be normal - and she ends up speaking to his collar more than anything. “Legs belong to you.”

Jughead’s eyes close at her words. It’s not true, not _really,_ but the phrasing pulls at something low in the pit of his stomach that is not altogether unpleasant. “I didn’t really touch them today,” he says almost morosely, trying to keep his voice casual. “I’ve been thinking about this morning for years and -”

“You have?”

The surprise in her voice makes his eyes snap open. “Are you serious?” he asks her, a bit loudly. “Betty, I’m almost eighteen years old and I basically touch you for a living. Of _course_ I’ve thought about … it.”

That seems to come as news to Betty, which shocks the hell out of Jughead. Who is she paying attention to if it’s not his stupid, moody, longing looks and his fidgeting fingers on her skin? Is she really that unaware of the effect that she has?

“Are you telling me that you haven’t thought about … me?” Jughead asks, a hint of teasing in his tone. Obviously, she hasn’t; he’s just a partner to her, just a -

“Of course I have,” Betty cuts in softly, rubbing her hand over his bicep. “I told you. I feel safe when you’re with me. I … I like your hands. They’re big and strong and gentle. And sometimes I think about how they’d feel in other places on me. But …”

“But it’s not a good idea,” Jughead finishes.

Betty looks sadly at him. “I don’t know,” she says, genuine confusion on her features. “I don’t know if it is. What if something happens and you don’t want to skate with me anymore? What if -”

“I’ll never not want to skate with you,” he tells her. “I promise.”

She sighs. “I know. And that’s not everything, but - Jug, I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I’ve never even had one. I spend all my waking hours with you. Is that too much of a good thing?”

Jughead stares at her. “I dunno, is it? I know you probably get tired of me pretty quickly, but … Betts, I’m never tired of hanging out with you.”

Betty exhales quickly and smiles up at him, her lower lip slowly disappearing between her teeth. “Me neither.” She leans into his arms and hugs him; he returns it, wrapping her tightly into him, and kisses her head.

“Let’s enjoy the party tonight, as much as that’s going to be humanly possible with Cheryl the Dragon on a warpath, and talk about it afterward, okay? There’s no deadline or … I mean, I’m not going anywhere,” he finishes, offering what he hopes is an encouraging half-smile.

Betty nods and pulls back from him. “Okay, agreed,” she decides, “we’ll talk later.” A flash of red hair across the room catches her eye, and she nods her head toward the other room. “I spot Archie and Veronica,” she tells him. Then, sounding almost like a recitation, she reiterates, “And we’ll talk later.”

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Jughead follows Betty around for almost the whole party, his hand clasped in hers more out of habit than anything, until she finds a group of people that she wants to visit with. They both have had a few drinks - nothing crazy, since alcohol isn’t in her diet plan and it’s definitely not in his DNA in any healthy way - and there’s a slight chance that he’s getting a little more protective than usual as a result. Chuck Clayton gives Betty a too-long once-over, his eyes lingering first on her boobs and then on her legs, and in response Jughead steps behind Betty with his hands on her hips so that he can glare at him most effectively.

Chuck gives him a knowing (if not annoyed) look, one that plainly reads _yeah I get it, man,_ and walks away.

They go to sit with Archie, Veronica, and a few others including Ethel and Kevin. They’re a seat short, by head count, but before a chair can be dragged over, Betty sits down on Jughead’s lap as casually as she tightens her ponytail. He drops one of his hands onto her lap, his just-slightly-buzzed fingertips caressing the bare skin at the hem of her skirt, and starts telling Kevin about the poutine in Montreal.

At some point, he needs to use the washroom, so he lifts her with ease off his lap, stands, and sets her back down. Thornhill is a huge, elaborate maze, but he eventually manages to find the facilities and spends probably a few minutes too long admiring the way the gold interweaves with the old, solid oak that frames the bathroom mirror. He’d thought Montreal was a step up, accommodations-wise, but a place like _this_ \- well, not even skating can bring him this.

When Jughead returns, he can see that Veronica is watching him with some kind of odd incredulity in her eyes that he guesses is related to Betty. Today, for some reason, he’s not about to let Archie’s New York princess sway him from what he’d be doing with Betty _anyway,_ so he scoops her up again and then, with a slight twirl reminiscent of a years-old routine, sits down with her on his lap once more.

Betty keeps talking to Archie throughout the whole move, which seems to fascinate Veronica. Archie, for his part, is utterly unbothered; he’s far more used to the two of them than she is. At some point Veronica gets Betty to go to the washroom with her - Jughead doesn’t get this at all, since it’s a _house,_ and while the washroom is indeed beautiful, whatever goes on in the women’s washroom cannot possibly be recreated in a single-home dwelling - and when they return there’s a knot in the waist of Betty’s shirt, exposing a bit of the core muscles she’s worked so hard to develop and maintain. His hand finds the new skin immediately, the other returning to her legs, and once more, Veronica looks incredulous.

Around eleven they both abandon the cups they’ve been nursing for over an hour, and Betty leans her head against Jughead’s shoulder. He kisses her head and positions them so that Reggie Mantle will stop trying to see up Betty’s skirt, instead sliding his own palm along the inside of her thigh. Betty lets out a soft breath in his ear that he knows nobody else can hear, and her legs squeeze together against his hand.

Suddenly, her head raises. “Let’s go for a walk, Juggie,” she says, eyes dark again like they’d been that morning.

Jughead swallows. _Let’s talk first,_ he should say. Instead, he nods his immediate assent. “Absolutely.”

She leads him by the hand through the throng of people dancing in Cheryl’s living room, all in varying states of drunk - including Kevin and his new boyfriend, a guy from the south side that Jughead actually knows named Joaquin, who are pressed against the wall with their tongues down each other’s throats. Betty gives a soft giggle at the sight of them, then pulls on Jughead’s arm until he’s flush against her back and his hands are on her waist again. Then, walking almost in unison, she turns them down a hallway and into a darkened alcove that houses four shelves of leather-bound books.

Betty drops his hand and turns around in his arms, his hands settling back on her hips, her fingertips hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. “Hi,” she says, her voice light.

For a second, Jughead wants to comb through the volumes - knowing Cheryl’s family, there’s a significant chance that a number of these are first editions - but then Betty tugs on his jeans and his eyes snap to hers. “Nice walk we just had there,” he teases.

“We’ll walk,” she promises. “I just wanted to make a pit stop first.”

“Oh?” Jughead presses his thumbs into her hipbones. “For what?”

Betty slides her hands up his chest and answers him with a kiss. Her fingers curl into the open edges of his unbuttoned flannel shirt as she pulls him in just ever-so-slightly closer. When she parts his lips with her tongue, which he happily accepts, Jughead shifts his grip so that he can grab her ass. He’s had his hands on her ass hundreds of times - thousands, probably, maybe even millions - but it’s never been like this, never been done to press himself against her with _purpose,_ or even accompanied by a delicate gasp into his mouth. He grins into her noises, kissing her and squeezing her ass again, until she breaks for air and he’s left panting against her cheek with one of his thumbs caressing the arch of her right breast.

“Is your dad home?” she asks, resting her forehead on his chin.

“It’s Saturday, I doubt it.”

She nods, slowly. Her eyes are a darker green than he’s ever seen. “Good.”

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The walk to his dad’s trailer takes almost twenty minutes, which is twenty-one minutes longer than Jughead wants it to be. Betty has a windbreaker with her, but even with that, he imagines that the cool evening air is still nipping at her legs. By the time they get to Sunnyside she’s moved fully from _I’m not cold Juggie, it’s okay_ to _yeah I could be there anytime now, that’d be great_ , which means that she really must be freezing.

As predicted, his dad isn’t home, which for the first time in his life Jughead is glad for. He shrugs off his sherpa jacket and the flannel that sits just underneath, then slips the flannel around Betty’s shoulders and pulls her into his lap on the couch to warm her up.

“I thought you were supposed to be taking my clothes _off,_ not putting more on,” she jokes, though she gratefully accepts both his shirt and his warming hands.

Jughead swallows hard at the implication. He wants to - _god,_ he wants to - but only if she’s desperate, too, only if she’s as overwhelmed as he is. Only if she feels good, if her breath is short with desire, if she’s comfortable and warm and -

Betty kisses him, her body leaning fully against his while she does so. Her legs are folded to one side with his hand holding them in place, so she’s propped herself against the back of the couch with her elbow to kiss him better. He kisses her back, feeling both feverish and slow at the same time. For these minutes he is wonderfully, gloriously teenaged, living without the expectation of winning or the weight of family on his back, sinking fully into this moment here with the girl he likes on his lap and his lips fused to hers.

Maybe he can do both, Jughead realizes; maybe he can be a competitive athlete and a regular teenager at the same time. The only thing he needs for either is Betty.

She raises herself up on her knees and swings one to the opposite side of his hips, straddling him. He pushes her skirt, whose corduroy is unforgiving, up to her hips so that she can sit down on his legs, then kisses her again and hastily grabs at her shirt.

He should put on music, Jughead thinks. That’s what people do in the movies. Or the TV or _something_ so that he’s not so utterly distracted by the erratic breaths coming from both of them, so that when he lifts both his flannel and her shirt off her body he can’t hear himself say, “Holy _shit,_ baby,” despite her bra being nothing he hasn’t _basically_ seen before through their years of training - but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at her, his eyes taking in the way that her breasts curve perfectly into her nude-coloured bra, how they strain against the fabric when she inhales.

“Jug?”

Jughead’s eyes snap up at the sound of his name. Betty is watching him, her lip between her teeth, looking nervous. “Hi,” he breathes, “sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but - you are so, so beautiful.”

Betty exhales, seeming almost relieved, which makes absolutely no sense to Jughead, because _obviously_ she is, unless - “Really?” she asks, her eyes wide with genuine surprise.

And Jughead hates it - he hates it so much, because he knows that she’s spent her life being pushed toward perfection by her mother and not reaching it - never being quite enough, in any way. He’s been around her family for years, long enough to have heard Alice say things to Betty that make his blood boil - _you should’ve studied more, Elizabeth; if you worked harder your lines would be cleaner, Elizabeth; you’d better skip dessert, Elizabeth_ \- and it’s clear to him that even now, with him, those imposed insecurities have surfaced.

 _“Yes,”_ he tells her emphatically, brushing her lips with his gently. “Every single thing about you, Betty.” He touches his lips to her cheek, then to her jaw, then even further along until he’s kissing her neck and she’s arched into him, moaning quietly at the touch of his tongue to her skin. He bites at her collarbone, just slightly, and when it makes her gasp he does it again, feeling inexplicably like he will never, ever get enough of her.

Jughead slides his hands around to her back, his fingers fumbling on the clasp of her bra. He tries to do it smoothly, romantically, like in the movies - but it doesn’t work. It’s _stuck_ , this fucking thing, goddamnit he _hates_ it, and only when Betty starts gigging on top of him does he realize he’s been speaking out loud.

“I’ll get it,” she offers, her eyes twinkling as she reaches behind herself. “Take your shirt off.”

He nods quickly. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” He leans forward slightly and tugs his own shirt from his body, tossing it somewhere, anywhere, it’s never mattered less. By the time he’s done, her bra is loose on her chest, and it soon falls away. For the briefest of seconds, Jughead stares at her naked chest, then he leans in and kisses her.

One of his hands moves to her ass, the other to her shoulder blades, and he uses her already-tightening legs for leverage as he lifts her, shifting slightly, and lays her down onto the couch with a practiced ease.

“Who knew lifts would be good for sex,” Betty breathes jokingly, smiling up at him when he comes to lay alongside her. She pushes her hand at her skirt. “Take it off.”

Jughead obeys, his fingers almost shaking as he nervously undoes the buttons along the front and pulls it away. She’s naked now, save for her nude-coloured thong; he skims his fingertips along the exquisite line of her body, shaking his head in disbelief as he goes, and finishes his path by kissing her. “Betty,” he says hoarsely, “you’re … I love you so much. We don’t -”

“If you’re going to tell me we don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” Betty interrupts, “don’t.” She grins at him, her hands gliding down his chest until they reach the top of his jeans. “I want _you,_ Jug. Take these off. Take _everything_ off.”

“Yeah,” Jughead chants, feeling fervent about his agreement. “Good idea, yeah.” He stands up, dancing slightly on his feet, undoes his jeans, and lets them fall to the floor. He puts a knee back on the couch, but Betty holds a hand up, and he pauses.

“I said _everything,_ ” she repeats, her tongue poking out between her lips playfully.

Jughead raises his eyebrows at her. “Bossy,” he accuses, grinning at her. He hooks his thumbs in his boxers. “You’re not - oh. Wait.” _Condoms._ “Hang on.” He hurries - runs, essentially - to his dad’s bedroom, ignoring the clothes on the floor, and for the first time in his life he hopes that his dad has condoms by his bed. “C’mon, Dad,” he mutters to himself, “please be getting laid.”

In a conflicting moment of triumph and disgust, he locates a box on the shelf, grabs one from inside, then rushes back to the living room.

Betty is where he left her, laying on the couch, but now her thong is on the floor with her skirt and she is wearing absolutely nothing. She smiles up at him, a look of hopeful confidence now on her face, and reaches her hand up to him. “C’mere, Juggie.”

He sheds his boxers, noting the look of anxious anticipation in her eyes at the sight of him, then joins her on the couch. He cups one of her breasts, relishing in the new sensation of having so much of his skin lay against hers, and kisses her deeply. She responds in tandem, sliding her tongue against his, and reaches her hand down to touch him.

“Oh Christ,” Jughead swears into her lips, as she begins to pump her hand along his length. “Baby, baby, hang on, hang on.” He grabs her hand, stills it, and pulls it away.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” Betty asks, furrowing her brow in concern.

“God, _yes,_ but believe me, Betts, it won’t take much.” He kisses her again. “I want you to feel good, too.” Swallowing hard, he touches her thigh, tilting it up to part her legs. “Can I …”

She nods, her eyelashes fluttering, and begins to guide his hand between her legs. His fingers move delicately, focusing on the warm wetness, and when he reaches her entrance he stops to focus on her face. Jughead slides one finger in carefully, intently watching her expression.

“Are you okay?”

Betty nods and reaches up for his face, pulling it toward hers. Jughead is briefly surprised at the ferocity of her kiss but matches her pace a moment later, nibbling gently at her lip and using the gasp she gives with the insertion of his second finger to slip his tongue into her mouth. He begins to move his fingers delicately, in and out just slightly, and lets her move his thumb onto her clit.

“Like this,” she breathes, breaking the kiss to guide his thumb into a rhythmic circular motion.

Jughead swallows and nods, nervously replicating her touch. “Is this good?” he asks, his eyes flicking from his hand to her eyes, which are slowly closing.

Betty nods, setting her head back on the pillow. “Mhm,” she says, biting the corner of her lip. He increases his pace, adding more pressure as he goes, and brings one of his fingers up to join his thumb. Betty’s breathing becomes more erratic, staccato, and Jughead lowers his lips to her chest to help her along. He brings her nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, and takes her breathless _“Juggie”_ as a positive sign.

He quickens his hand even more, bites down on her nipple, then soothes it with his tongue. He has no idea if he’s doing this right - he has basically no experience, save for an awkward evening at the drive-in with his hand up Toni’s shirt when he was fourteen that left her looking incredibly dissatisfied - but this is _Betty,_ and he knows her body as well as he knows his own. She works hard, always seeking perfection, seeking approval - so he presses himself against her thigh, needing _some_ relief, and begins to quietly chant, “Come for me, baby, you’re so good, come for me.”

Jughead’s not sure if it’s his words or his touch, but not long afterward, Betty’s mouth falls open in an almost-silent scream, her chest heaving with rapid breaths, toes curling. She exhales, breathless, and her eyes open with a pleasured, slightly embarrassed smile.

He loves it, loves her, wants her to be proud of how fucking sexy she is, how beautiful _that_ was, so he kisses her neck and breathes his sentiment into her ear. He’s impossibly hard against her, but she’s still coming down, still panting, and he doesn’t want to overwhelm her.

But then she reaches down again, touching him, and asks, “Condom?”

Jughead nods, moving his hand to the floor where he’d dropped it, and rips open the package. He sits up, rolling it on himself awkwardly, then moves her legs to wrap around his thighs. He puts himself into position, lifting her hips up, and looks at her for another nod of excited permission before he finally begins to push into her.

She’s impossibly tight so he moves slowly, watching until the wince on her face becomes a loosely-strained smile, then pushes deeper. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes, keep going,” Betty answers, nodding. Her head is tilted back and he can’t kiss her, so he drops his lips to her collarbone when he starts to move inside her. She gasps with each thrust, her hands clutching at his biceps, but she’s flushed with pleasure, not pain, and it’s that look on her face that encourages him. He keeps moving, overwhelmed at the pressure and the warmth and the feeling, and in what he knows must be an embarrassingly short amount of time, he’s coming.

“I love you,” Jughead tells her again, slumping onto her with what feels like temporary paralysis. “I’ll always -”

“Same.” Betty’s fingers card through his hair, scratching at his scalp. “I love you too, Juggie.”

He swallows, not wanting to move. If he gets up, they have to talk, and if they talk, the spell might be broken. He wants to prolong this moment, this night; so instead, he drops his voice to a whisper. “Stay the night,” he begs into her neck, “please.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but when she does it’s with his head tugged back by his hair and a smile on her face. “Okay.”

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Jughead wakes up the next morning on the couch in his dad’s trailer, much like he’d done the day before. Today, though, is different. Today, Betty is with him, her body curled around his beneath the blanket from the back of the couch, her lips pillowed against his chest. He glances toward the clock on the wall, which reads seven-thirty, and groans audibly with distaste at what that means.

“Betts,” he says gently, shaking her a little. “We gotta get up, baby.”

She whines and twists adorably into him, shaking her head. “No.”

“Baby, it’s seven-thirty. Your mom’s going to wonder where you are.”

Betty’s head snaps up at that. _“Shit,”_ she swears, leaping off of him. The blanket falls, revealing her naked body, and for a moment they both freeze. Her eyes pass nervously to his, and once he’s done memorizing this image, he sighs.

“You have no idea how badly I want you to come back to this couch,” Jughead tells her.

She giggles shyly at that, then reaches down for her underwear on the floor and begins to get dressed. He gets up too and starts doing the same - boxers, jeans, t-shirt - until he realizes with horror that his dad’s truck is here and that he must have come home at some point in the night, thus walking right past the two of them naked on the couch.

“I’m going to get the keys for the truck from my dad,” Jughead tells her, hoping she doesn’t make the same leap that he did, “and I’ll drive you home.”

Betty nods, pulling her shirt over her head. “Okay.”

Jughead steps away, down the hall again, and gingerly pushes the bedroom door open. His father is fast asleep, snoring quietly, so he lifts the keys carefully to hopefully avoid waking him.

It doesn’t work. FP stirs, rolling over, and opens one bleary eye. “Hey Jug.”

“Borrowing the truck,” Jughead tells him. “Back soon.”

“S’fine,” FP yawns, rubbing his face with his palms. “Hey, kid?”

Jughead stops his retreat, poking his head back in. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for picking the couch. I just changed these sheets.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Jughead hisses, immediately closing the door and backing down the hallway.

He rushes Betty out of the trailer, red-faced, and gets her home in five minutes. They stop outside her house, the truck in park, and she turns to him.

“About last night,” she begins.

 _Here it is,_ Jughead thinks, _the end._

“...I think we shouldn’t tell anyone, at least at first. There’s so much … scrutiny, and I want to … I dunno, I wanna enjoy this.” Betty smiles shyly at him. “Does that sound okay?”

He breathes out. “Yeah,” he agrees, nodding happily. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good.” She opens the truck door, but pauses. “We can make this work, right?”

Jughead nods at her, not feeling the confidence that he wants to, but knowing that she needs it from him. “Yeah,” he says, “absolutely.”

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Two weeks later, as he sits in French class in Montreal, Jughead stares ahead at the back of Betty’s head and reflects on how many things have changed in just a few short days, and how many things haven’t.

He still sucks at French. He is still _mal._ They still train. He still eats too much poutine and he’s still behind on an essay that’s due to their online English teacher. Luc and Sophie still push them. He still hates his sparkly black costume for Nationals. And she’s still beautiful.

But now, when she comes over on a Tuesday morning to get schoolwork done before their rink time, Jughead doesn’t give her a friendly wave and settle in to work in math. Now, as soon as the basement door is closed, she’s in his arms with her legs around his hips and her tongue in his mouth. Now, he gets to carry her to his bedroom, peel off her clothes, and make love to her with all the history and fervency of the years they’ve missed being this way.

He might be doing a little worse in math now, but it’s been worth it.

The night before, when she’d been wrapped around him under his comforter, Betty had asked Jughead what he wanted for his birthday that weekend, and for the first time in eighteen years, he had an answer.

“You,” he’d told her, “just you.”

“You have me,” she’d responded with a giggle, her eyes dancing. “But hmm, interesting concept. Maybe I can come up with a little something.”

_A little something._

Elle va me tuer, he writes in his notebook. _She is going to kill me._

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That Saturday, Betty comes over around five o’clock to have dinner with himself and his host family. Amie, now seven, is still completely enamoured with Betty, and drags her away from him almost immediately upon her arrival. Jughead doesn’t mind - Amie is like his little sister now, and he’s going to miss her and her parents when he doesn’t have to live here anymore. As soon as they graduate, they can get apartments in Montreal, and in the brief couple of weeks since they’ve been a couple, all Jughead can think of is whether it’s appropriate to move in with your girlfriend that quickly, or whether the years and years they’ve worked together can count.

They have steak, freshly grilled by Clark, which he and Betty have both been saving their calories for. After, Elle brings out an angel food cake, and he devours more of it than is probably tasteful.

“Thank you guys,” Jughead tells them, genuinely meaning it. “For everything you’ve done for me and for Betty.”

“You’re welcome,” Elle says, rubbing his shoulder. “Go out there and get some golds for us, okay?”

“We’ll try,” Betty answers, smiling at her. “Let me help you clean up.”

“No, no,” Elle dismisses. “It’s Jug’s birthday. You two run along and go do whatever you’ve got planned. But thank you, Betty.”

“Movie marathon,” she explains, “Like always.” She gives them a little wave, then picks up her backpack from near the foyer and leads Jughead to the basement.

As soon as they’re downstairs, Jughead wraps his arms around her from behind, kissing her cheek wetly. “Movie marathon, huh?” he repeats, cupping her breasts. “Can I have dessert first?”

Betty giggles and pushes at his hands. “We just ate.”

Jughead wiggles his eyebrows at her. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” she laughs. “Just give me a few minutes to digest, okay? Here, let’s pick - I brought _An American Werewolf in Paris_ -”

“Perfect,” Jughead interrupts. “I pick that.” He squeezes her ass, then lifts her up so that she’ll put her legs around him. “To the couch then, my lady?”

Betty snorts and swats at his arm, but holds on anyway. “You know, I can walk. You don’t have to carry me everywhere.”

“I _like_ carrying you everywhere.” Jughead sets her down by the couch. “Lots of butt-touching opportunities.”

She rolls her eyes and sits down on the couch, leaning into him immediately when he settles beside her. “We’re dating now, Juggie,” she reminds him. “You don’t need an excuse.”

“Hm.” Jughead tilts her chin up, searches her eyes teasingly, then kisses her. “Good,” he says lowly, pushing backward until she’s flat on the couch. He begins to unbutton her shirt, first revealing her abdomen and then her perfect breasts, which look incredible in what seems like a new bra - lacy, he observes, and delicate, unlike the others he’s seen. He swallows and slips a hand into the cup. “Is this for me?” he murmurs, pinching her nipple.

“Mm.” Betty nods, finding his mouth, and presses her hips up to his. “Always.”

He carries her into the bedroom, just to be safe, and they make love on top of the covers. After, he drags an old blanket over top of them, and Jughead has a flash of this: laying in a bed - their bed - on a Sunday morning, naked; her body under his hands, and his under hers. Then, following right after, another flash: this one of a _kid,_ one that looks kind of like her but kind of like him, too, laced up with little skates. He’s never wanted children before in anything other than a factual _oh-maybe_ kind of way, but right now he can _feel_ it, with her, this future. He wants it, one day, and wants _her_ , forever.

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She doesn’t stay the night, because Alice has tabs on her host mother, too, but they have an extra Sunday-morning practice the next day, so he sees her seven hours later.

But today, the ice feels different. It felt that way the moment Jughead stepped out onto it - less steady, somehow, or otherwise off. He pushed forward anyway, and now he and Betty are practicing some moves from their free dance. They enter a camel spin, holding each other’s midsections with one leg each extended, and all he can think about is the way her heel dug into the back of his thigh the night before. He counts - _one-two-three, two-two-three, three-two-three_ \- then begins to exit out of it. He takes a step away, which she’s intended to mirror, but suddenly the edge of Betty’s blade swings toward him and narrowly misses, the point almost slicing right into his side.

She’s missed a beat. Jughead frowns, just briefly, and stops the routine to skate up to her. Luc is on the ice now too, barrelling toward him. “Jug!” he calls, “you okay?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jughead dismisses, his eyes watching Betty’s. She looks horrified, her hands at her mouth, tears prickling already. “I’m totally fine. Didn’t hit me.”

“Ohmigod,” Betty breathes, shaking her head. “Juggie, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

Luc raises an eyebrow at her. “It’s okay, Betty, it happens. But get your head on the ice, okay? I don’t need a Zednik situation here.”

She nods, swallowing visibly, blinking away moisture. “Yes, of course,” she tells him. “I’m so sorry. Okay.” She shakes out her limbs, holds her hand out to Jughead, and they resume. He skates with her down the ice and back so that they can re-enter the spin, already having dismissed the near-miss - accidents happen, they’ve both fallen before, it’s fine. It’s a little close to their first Grand Prix for this, but … it’s fine.

(It’s not fine.)

An hour later, it’s Jughead’s turn to screw up.

They’re doing a straight-line lift, simple enough in its conception. He’s supposed to lift Betty, circle her around his neck so that she can rotate her back toward the ice, then hold her legs while she extends outward with her skates resting on his abdomen. It’s a move they’ve mastered long ago, a solid for position for them with the appropriate centre, as long as she can trust him - and he’s had no problem maintaining that trust. He won’t drop her, never has; it’s a responsibility he doesn’t take lightly, the fact that she’s the one with the dangerous elevation above the unforgiving ice. He’s careful, always focused, ensuring that she’s okay even after he’s hoisted her into perilous positions so that the world can see her grace the way that he does.

But somehow, today, in the middle of his rumination, his hand slips. Betty’s leg bends, surprised at the sudden loss of support, and he only just manages to readjust in time before she crumbles. It’s a quick catch, but his heart starts beating rapidly anyway, and they have to stop before continuing on with the routine.

Luc and Sophie are watching them from just behind the boards, Sophie’s eyes squinted carefully. Jughead swallows, wondering if they can tell what he’s thinking - it feels that way sometimes - but then Betty grabs his hand, reassuring him, and they skate to the sides to get ready for a quick interview for a TSN preview.

 

* * *

 

Betty thinks that she’s in love.

She wakes up every morning with a tiny smile on her lips, even when her alarm blares before sunrise. As she gets ready for the day, she puts on a Spotify playlist and sings along to Taylor Swift. _Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone._ Her heart soars so violently she feels like it might leave her body when Jughead flops into the passenger seat in that boyish, loose-limbed way of his, and leans over to kiss her gloss-sticky lips. Once they’ve parked in the lot at the rink, she runs her thumb over his mouth, removing the shiny smudge of pink. It’s the same routine, every single morning, and they’d be spared the last step if he just kissed her cheek instead, but neither of them ever considers that option.

Betty thinks that she’s in love, and she thinks that she’s in the prime of her career. She envisions herself atop the Olympic podium, a white-knuckled grasp on Jughead’s hand. She imagines some quiet corner of the Athlete’s Village, where he’ll kiss her, and their medals will clang together between their hearts. It feels like all the pieces of her life are slotting into place: finally, she and Jughead are together; finally, the Olympics are on the horizon.

Their Sunday practice and its two almost-disasters startle her back into a reality that isn’t quite so rosy-coloured. It’s the biggest season of their lives, and they’ve made rookie mistakes - mistakes _worse_ than rookie errors, really; the kinds of mistakes they’ve never made before. She rationalizes those mistakes with the very reason that they can’t keep reoccurring: it’s the most significant season they’ve ever had. They’re used to pressure, but not _this_ particular kind of pressure.

“I think it’s just because of the Olympics,” she tells Odette, their mental preparation coach, when they sit in her office on a Wednesday evening. It’s snowing hard outside and she was a little nervous about driving home; on their way into the building, Jughead eased her car keys from her hand and tucked them into his own pocket, and she squinted at him through the big white flakes and smiled.

“And what do you mean by that?” Odette prompts.

“We’ve never had a chance at the Olympics before,” Betty says with a little shrug. “It’s the chance everyone dreams about. And now that we have that chance, we _have_ to make it happen. We’ve never been in this kind of headspace before.” She glances over at Jughead for confirmation and he nods.

“A nervous headspace?”

Betty bites her lip. She’s not sure if that’s what she’d call it. Odette has helped them a lot with nerves, taught them to embrace their pounding hearts and trembling fingers and channel that energy into their skating, to welcome that intensity and project it outward, to the judges and the audience. They still have all those skillsets and still know how to use them. What’s happening now is different.

“Yes,” she says finally, because she can’t think of another way to label it. In her peripheral vision, she sees Jughead’s chin dip downward in another nod.

“Alright,” Odette says easily. “Let’s talk about new strategies to manage these new nerves.”

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“We need to focus,” Betty says firmly, her hands still gripping the steering wheel even though she’s turned her car’s engine off. She stares at the rink like it’s a mountain she intends to summit.

“I’m focused,” Jughead promises. She can feel his energy radiating off of him, his determination to get in there and prove to Luc and Sophie, and to themselves, that they’re ready for the season that lies ahead of them.

She turns to him, expecting to find his eyes pinned to the rink, projecting all that energy toward it, prepared to give it everything he’s got.

But that’s not where his eyes are. His eyes are on hers, their blue almost indiscernible in the early morning half-light, making promises she understands not with her mind but with her heart.

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Practices improve. Luc has them do their straight-line lift again and again and again, not letting up until their execution finally convinces him that Betty’s not going fall flat on the ice. They twizzle until she almost doesn’t recognize the rink when all its shapes and colours aren't whirling by in a blur. They run their midline step sequence for Sophie until Betty’s so exhausted that she drifts back towards the boards doubled over, her hands braced on her knees, sucking in air desperately. Jughead glides into step next to her, puts a hand on her back and leans down beside her.

“Good?” he asks her, breathing so hard that she barely catches the word in the midst of his exhale.

“Good,” she confirms as her heart finally stops slamming so hard in her chest. She doesn’t look at him.

They _are_ good. They’re great, even. But they’re missing that _thing_ of theirs, that thing that commentators have called _sheer magic_ and _pure excellence_ and _a true gift._ Henri calls it their _je ne sais quoi,_ which is probably the most accurate descriptor. They’re lacking that special thing, and Betty just can’t seem to find it on the ice, not when she’s so concentrated on listening for accents in the music and counting out her steps and thinking _only_ of extending her limbs and arching her back elegantly when Jughead grips her thigh to lift her. In the midst of all that, it seems, there’s no room for anything else.

But she finds it later on, when she emerges from the changing room in the evening with a loose-fitting sweater pulled on over her leotard, sweat drying on her skin as her body begs for rest. She can smell the alleged waterlily fragrance of her antiperspirant, and when she falls into step next to Jughead, she catches a whiff of the apparent scent of timber is his deodorant working overtime. He breaks a protein bar in half and hands her the one that appears to have more pieces of dark chocolate, and they eat in silence on the walk to her car. He flicks on the radio and they listen to classic rock on the drive back to their shared neighbourhood, where Betty takes a right one block too soon and parks in the empty lot of the nearest high school. It’s cold outside so they both climb over the centre console and into the back seat, and when he presses her into the corner of the car and very carefully pulls out all the bobby pins holding her bun in place so that he can wrap the messy, tired ponytail that’s left around his hand as he tilts her head back to expose every inch of the line of her neck and settle his mouth, delicately, in the spot above her pulse point -

There it is. That _je ne sais quoi_. She doesn’t know what it is, she really doesn’t; she could never even try to name it. But Jughead’s hand between her legs, rubbing so gently at her over layers of leggings and leotard, fills her with the very sense she used to get when their bodies finally collided again after a no-touch step sequence back at Penny Peabody’s skating school, that feeling of _yes_ intermingled with a longing for more.

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They win Skate America. It isn’t really a surprise - winning was the only option - but it is a relief. Betty clutches Jughead’s hand tightly as they await their score, and feels him give her cold fingers two quick squeezes, a silent message that he’s right there with her. Their knees and thighs press together and she holds her breath as their scores are announced. Blood is roaring in her ears and she can’t quite make sense of the numbers, but the _1_ that appears by their names after the free dance is perfectly clear to her eyes, and a grin breaks out over her lips as the audience applauds.

“Great work, great work,” she hears Luc say as Jughead stamps a kiss to her cheek and gathers her into a hug.

“You were awesome,” she whispers to him, her lips right against his ear. His hands were always right where she’d needed them to be, holding her up, shifting her into new positions, waiting for her own hand to settle against his palm so he could dance her across the ice. “Thank you.”

“ _You_ were awesome, babe,” he says as she begins to pull away from him, prompted by Sophie’s soft pat on her back. “I don’t think anyone was looking at me.”

They stand up and wave at the crowd to thank their fans. The arena is filled with signs that say _LET’S GO COOPER JONES._ She locates her sister behind one of them and catches sight of Polly’s beaming smile. Her whole family made the trip to Washington, but neither FP nor Gladys is in attendance at this competition. As the applause dies down, she lets her cheek rest momentarily against Jughead’s shoulder; it doesn’t matter, now, if she gets a little bronzer on his soft, faintly pinstriped shirt. She gives his hand two squeezes, just like he had to hers earlier.

 _I’m here,_ they say. _With you._

They make their way out of the kiss-and-cry to wait for things to be set up for the medal ceremony, accepting congratulations and hugs from the USFSA officials milling about, and then head over to the Italian team that came in second to air-kiss their cheeks. As they’re making aimless small-talk, all four of them wearing their most polite smiles as they lament the rain that has plagued the weekend, Betty catches sight of their coaches out of the corner of her eye. They’re standing very close together by one of the little backstage monitors, talking directly into one another’s ears. Sophie’s eyes keep flicking over Luc’s face like she’s looking for something, looking for _answers_ , and Betty feels her smile falter. She glances at the large screens over the centre of the arena, which are likely playing the same content that’s on the monitors, and instantly understands the source of their coaches’ disquiet.

The rankings for the event are listed on the screen, displaying team names and their scores, each line accompanied by a tiny flag. The American flag is at the top, next to their names ( _Elizabeth COOPER / Forsythe JONES_ ), followed by their score. It’s the first time she’s really registered that number and not merely their position on the podium, and she realizes that they’re just 1.1 points ahead of the Italian team. That’s not where Luc and Sophie wanted them to be or expected them to be, and it’s definitely not the kind of point gap they want to have with anyone going into the Grand Prix Final or the Olympics. Her stomach twists and she feels, suddenly, like she could throw up.

Her efforts to breathe through her nausea are interrupted by the Italian pair saying, “Ciao!” and heading off with their coach. She manages to wave at them and turns immediately to Jughead, wanting to call his attention to just how tenuous their lead here was, despite how the audience had whooped and hollered during their tango romantica, despite the fact that she could’ve _sworn_ she saw someone wiping away tears when they took their bows after their _Amélie_ -themed free dance, despite how -

But then both her hands are in both of his, his thumbs sweeping tenderly over her knuckles as he gathers her hands to his chest, to his heart. She can see _we did it, Betts_ in his eyes, as clearly as she did when they were eight and twelve and fifteen, and she doesn’t want to take that from him.

“Juggie,” she says softly, and he leans in close, brushing his lips against one side of her mouth.

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The rest of the day rushes by. They skate back out onto the ice and twirl and bow and mouth _thank you, thank you_ as the notes of “Comptine d’Un Autre Été” play on the arena’s speakers. They dip their heads to receive medals and shake the hands of old men from the ISU and accept bouquets of flowers. They sing the national anthem and take a lap around the rink to wave their thanks to the crowd.

They take photos: photos with their arms around each other, photos with the other medalists, photos with their coaches, photos with the other American team, Maddie and Andrew, photos with her family, photos to accompany blurbs about their win on sporting websites. They tell TSN that they’re happy with their performance today but that there’s always room for improvement. They’re nudged over to a journalist from NBC afterward, who says, directly to Jughead, “Doesn’t your partner look lovely today?” which makes Betty blink in faint confusion, but he doesn’t miss a beat before he says, “She always does.”

She’s ready to soak her tired muscles in freezing cold or scalding hot water - she can’t figure out which one she’d prefer - but every major skating event is followed by a gala, and they’re expected to appear there every bit as much as they were expected to step out onto the ice. Betty has enough time for a shower and then a snack while her sister dries and curls her hair before she’s rushing to apply enough makeup to both make her look polished and mask her tiredness. Jughead’s room is three doors down at the Hilton where the gala’s being held, and she meets him in the hotel hallway, her stocking feet padding along the floor, carrying her heels on two hooked fingers.

“Hey,” he says warmly when he spots her. “You look great.”

“The power of makeup,” she quips as he reaches over to take her heels so that he can carry them for her.

“Nah,” he says, setting his free hand low on her hip over her little black dress and leaving a lingering kiss on her jawline. “The power of you.”

She sighs and lets her body tilt into his. “You’re the powerful one,” she says, giving his bicep a squeeze.

He loops his arm around her waist. “Need me to carry you downstairs?”

“I wish,” she says, casting a resentful look at the shoes he’s holding. “I don’t want to put those on. I know we should be celebrating, but I don’t even want to _go_. I wish we could hang out, just the two of us.”

“So do I,” he says, and his voice sounds lower now, more gruff. She knows what he wants, and she wants it, too. The room he’s sharing with a singles skater is currently completely unoccupied.

“I wish my parents weren’t here,” she muses, casting a glance over her shoulder. They’ll undoubtedly go down to the hotel bar to get a drink, perfectly positioned to see the two of them head back up to bed at a reasonable hour.

When she looks back at Jughead, though, she clamps her lips tightly together as her eyes widen. “I didn’t mean that,” she says quickly. “I was just thinking...about privacy, but I didn’t mean that I’m not - I didn’t mean to… ”

“I know, Betty,” he cuts in, more understanding in his voice than she probably deserves. “I’ve wanted to be out from under Alice’s microscope my fair share of times. You have no control over the fact that your parents are super engaged and mine are...not.”

She lets her fingers slip soothingly through the hair at the nape of his neck before she links her hands there. “Have you talked to your dad?” she asks quietly.

“I called.” He’s not looking at her, his eyes fixed firmly on her sternum. “Left a message.”

A lump threatens to form in her throat. “I’m sure he’s so proud of you,” she whispers. She hopes with all her heart that FP will call back and tell him as much. She wants to believe that she doesn’t have to hope that FP remembered that they’re competing this weekend. The Joneses are such a stark contrast to her own parents, who’ve already picked out the hotel they want to stay in during the Beijing Games. She doesn’t know if FP and Gladys are aware of the dates for the upcoming winter Olympics. She doesn’t know that they could afford to fly halfway around the world, even if they have the intention to.

“Jug,” she says, after a long, heavy moment of silence. She waits until he pulls his gaze to hers, his eyes swimming with all the things she knows he tries not to think about. “You - ” She swallows. “You deserve so much more.”

She watches the anguish seep out of his eyes, giving way to a warmth she wants to wrap around herself. “I don’t know about what I _deserve_ ,” he says. “But what I _want_ is to get some of the good appetizers before Andrew inhales them all, so we should probably get going, right?”

“Right,” she says, so quietly she’s not even sure sound comes out of her mouth, but he hears her loud and clear. She drops her hands from his neck and slides her right hand into his left, his fingers weaving through hers.

She knows what he deserves, even if he doesn’t. He deserves everything. And he’s right that she can’t control his parents or her own, that she can’t get his father to pay more attention or his mother to pick up the damn phone and call once in a while. But she can get him gold medals. She can get him the high of a technically sound skate. She can get him endorsements that will make it easy for him to pay the bills once they’re no longer living with their host families. She can get him to that podium in Beijing, to the title of Olympic champion.

So she will.

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Betty makes it back to her hotel room shortly after midnight, stifling yawns behind her hand in the elevator. Her parents are with them, overprotective as ever, so she can’t give Jughead the sound, think-of-this-in-your-dreams sort of kiss she’d like to; she has to settle for leaving her hand in his for an extra moment, brushing her fingertips slowly across his palm as they pull apart. Her mother is talking to him all the while, advising him to get a good night’s sleep, and her father is smiling indulgently at Betty’s exhausted face, probably reliving her childhood or something. They’re so accustomed to Jughead being an extension of their daughter that she thinks they often forget that he’s also a _boy_.

“Night, Betts,” he says to her, looking at her lips.

“See you in the morning,” she replies with a little smile, and lets her mother shepherd her down the hall.

Unlike most of the skaters, who are sharing rooms with other athletes, Betty’s sharing with her sister, who spent the night at the hotel room desk working on an important term paper. She tiptoes into the room, half expecting Polly to be asleep.

She’s not. Betty finds her sister sitting upright in one of the double beds, her hair braided over one shoulder and her laptop balanced on her knees.

“Hey, Poll,” she says around yet another yawn. “What are you still doing u - ”

Polly interrupts her. “Are you and Jughead together?”

Betty blinks. “I - what?” She slides her heels off slowly, the arches of her feet aching. “What do you - who - who told you that?” she finishes lamely.

“No one _told_ me, but everyone’s talking about it.” Polly turns her laptop around, and Betty approaches her bed, taking small, hesitant footsteps, to see what’s on the screen.

It’s a photograph, from earlier, of her with Jughead, after they’d won but before the medal ceremony. It’s the moment right after they bid the Italian couple goodbye and he’d taken her hands like he’d never held anything so wonderful and let his lips skim against hers. The picture - which must have been taking by one of the photographers waiting to get shots of the podium - is so _obviously_ of a private moment that Betty feels violated in a way she never has before, not even after ten years of being ranked by judges and featured in the human interest pages of newspapers and poked and prodded by seamstresses. Her eyes are closed. It looks like a kiss.

“We - we won,” Betty stutters, dropping down to sit on the edge of her own bed. “We were...celebrating, we - ”

Polly looks, simultaneously, both sympathetic and irritated, her eyebrows sitting very high on her forehead. “I’ve seen you two do a _lot_ of things that normal people don’t do, but I’ve never seen you kiss.”

“It’s not, like, a _real_ kiss,” Betty says, and cringes internally the moment the words leave her mouth.

Her sister studies her. “Have you seen this year’s preview piece from TSN?”

Betty shakes her head. “It would’ve…aired today. This is our first major competition.”

Polly nods, folds back her blankets, pats the spot on the mattress beside her, and begins typing. Betty climbs in next to her sister and pulls the white, fluffy comforter over them both, feeling like a very small version of herself, shivering in the wake of a bad dream.

The video Polly’s found on YouTube is just under five minutes long and already has a ridiculously high number of views. The content at the beginning is unsurprising: there’s footage of them as little kids, captured on her father’s early iPhone, a brief montage of clips of the two of them with smiles on their faces and medals around their necks, some positive soundbytes from commentators played over their old routines. She and Jughead appear as talking heads, discussing how hard they’ve worked and the themes for their programs.

Things shift when the video cuts to footage from the practice session that TSN attended. _The thing that truly sets this pair apart,_ the man doing the voiceover intones, _is their personal connection._

Betty forgets to breathe as she watches herself flirt with Jughead on the ice, her head tipping back as she laughs at one of his jokes, her arms finding their way around him with obvious familiarity as she moves in close to whisper something in his ear that makes him laugh in turn. She watches him idly wrap her ponytail around his wrist as they listen to Luc’s critiques; she observes just how close their lips get as they practice their spin. A rush of heat runs through her body when she witnesses them running the moment in their tango choreography where they come to a stop and Jughead’s arms encircle her from behind, hands low across her hips - she can see her eyes _roll back_ when he touches her.

 _They’ve certainly picked the right mentors,_ voiceover-man says with something infuriatingly knowing in his voice, and then, to Betty’s absolute horror, two clips are placed side by side: one in which she’s seated next to Jughead in her practice gear as he loops an arm around her and stamps a kiss to her temple, and one which features their coaches, as teens, in virtually the exact same positions, Luc’s movements a mirror to Jughead’s.

 _No matter what medals are in their future,_ voiceover-man concludes, and Betty doesn’t know who he is, but she _hates_ him, _these two certainly have something to treasure._

She stares at the screen once the video ends, swallowing hard, over and over again. She’s wide awake now, far less tired than she was five minutes ago. For a moment, she thinks she might need to cry, but no - that’s not it. She needs Jughead: to see him, to tell him, to deal with this together, like they do everything else.

But, she realizes a beat later, she can’t do any of those things. She can’t interrupt his roommate’s sleep, and she can’t just dart out of the room while Polly stares at her with a level of concern that seems to be increasing moment by moment.

“Betty?” her sister asks gently.

She clenches her hands in her lap. “They - they talked about our skating for _one minute_. They spent the rest of the time… writing a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

“Oh, Betts. They’re not saying you’re not talented. They’re just - you’re sweet together. It’s hard not to notice. And I mean...you are, right? Together?”

Betty turns to her. “We’re not here because we’re _sweet together._ _Sweet together_ doesn’t get you to the Olympics, _sweet together_ isn’t - ” All the blood and sweat and tears they’ve given to their sport over a decade, the move to a Francophone city when they were sixteen years old, the _work_ they’ve done, even as children, the routines they put together this year to wow crowds around the globe, everything they’ve intended to show the world - none of it’s there, in that video. Instead, it’s full of the very thing she wanted to keep quiet, between them, guarded and safe and so carefully tended, _treasured_ , like voiceover-man had implied and then immediately undone by exposing what she cherishes so deeply to the curious eyes of the public.

“It’s okay,” Polly says, and Betty realizes that her sister’s got an arm wrapped around her in half a hug. “It’s okay. People just like a love story.” She tilts her head. “Isn’t it good that people are paying attention?”

She shakes her head. “I - I have to take my makeup off,” she murmurs, and heads for the hotel washroom, where she pours micellar water onto cotton rounds on autopilot.

She feels foolish. She thought people believed in their talent, their potential; she thought they were favourites for the Olympic team because they’re undeniable, not because they’re _sweet together_. She’s known for years that fans are intrigued by the way they are with one another, that people think they’re cute, and she hasn’t minded that - but she didn’t think the TSN crew visited them at the rink to promote that narrative rather than the storyline that chronicles their journey as athletes. 

When she finally leaves the washroom, having scrubbed her face so hard that her skin is pink and raw, Polly is asleep. Betty switches off the lamp between their beds and burrows under her blankets with her phone. She texts Jughead to tell him about the picture and the video, and then impatiently untangles the knot her headphones have become, plugging them in before she searches for footage of their skates.

Their short dance looks great, and the commentators seem to agree, noting that they’re _”really projecting the feeling of the dance.”_ She watches their free, next, and is feeling good about it, especially when one of the commentators audibly _sighs_ , like they’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but then, as they’re taking their bows, beaming up at the audience, his partner says, _”This is a truly beautiful routine. People will remember this one for a long, long time, I think. And obviously, they’re so talented, and their connection - well, I would say it’s unparalleled but I have to remember who their coaches are… All the same, I just can’t quite shake the sense that they’re skating this_ safe _. And you can’t be safe at the Olympics."_

Her partner _hmms_ thoughtfully, but Betty doesn’t have to think about it. She knows that assessment is right. She’s not sure she knows how to skate _anything_ but safe, these days, focused so intensely on the music and the next steps and not on Jughead’s fingers curling around her hip.

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She wakes in the morning to a reply from him: _Fuck._

 _Guess we should talk?_ she texts back, and then heads for the shower.

When she emerges from the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a hotel towel, she comes to a stop so abrupt that she nearly trips over her own feet. Sophie is sitting on her bed, idly chatting with her sister; they both smile as they turn to her, Sophie’s eyes sharp where Polly’s are bleary.

“Good morning,” her coach says.

“Good morning,” Betty replies faintly. Sophie’s dark hair is in a messy bun atop her head, and she’s wearing a baggy Adidas sweater in a soft pink colour. Betty has the sense - fleeting but distinct - that her coach’s appearance might be meant to lull her into a false sense of security.

“I know you’re here with your family,” Sophie says. “And I hate to take away from your time with them, but I hoped you and Jughead could join us for a quick breakfast?”

Despite the way Sophie’s voice lilts up at the end, Betty doesn’t think it’s actually a question. “Sure,” she says.

“Wonderful,” Sophie says, getting to her feet. “Let’s meet in the lobby in ten minutes.”

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Ten minutes doesn’t give Betty time to text Jughead. She’s a whirlwind as she rushes around, tugging on clothes, throwing her damp hair up, slapping on some mascara and lip gloss in case they’re recognized, and easing her tired feet into a pair of sneakers. When she leaves her room, she spots him standing by the elevators and calls, “Jug!” wincing at how loud her voice sounds in the early-morning quiet of the hallway.

He turns, and even from a distance, she can see relief flood over his face. “Betts,” he says, and half a second later she’s in his arms, clinging to him like she never intends to let go.

She does let go, reluctantly, when the elevator arrives. Once she’s pressed the button for the ground floor, she clasps her hand around his and looks into his face. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but discovers that she doesn’t need to: he’s already nodding, just the slightest dip of his chin, and that tells her that he can read her eyes as well as she can read his.

When the elevator doors slide open again, they spot their coaches immediately, waiting for them by a little stand full of pamphlets for tourists. Their grip on each other loosens, and Jughead shoves his hands into the pockets of his sherpa-lined coat as they make their way over to Luc and Sophie, shuffling their feet like two schoolchildren who have been caught misbehaving and are awaiting their scolding.

“Morning!” is all Luc says, his voice as bright as ever, and then he leads them out of the hotel and onto the street. He seems to know where he’s going, so they just trail after him. He reaches for Sophie’s hand, and Betty becomes hyper-aware of her own hands, curled up into the sleeves of her coat, and Jughead’s, still buried in his pockets.

Luc takes them to a truly tiny cafe. It has all of five tables, and they sit at one that’s tucked into a corner as the barista prepares four cups of the house brew for them.

“So,” Luc says once they’re all settled in their seats - Betty took the longest, constantly rearranging her jacket over the back of her chair. She sucks in a breath and feels Jughead’s knee press against hers. “Interesting weekend.”

“We’re - I’m - we’re sorry we didn’t tell you,” Betty says slowly, trying very hard not to look at her partner.

Both of their coaches’ expressions shift; Sophie almost looks sad.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Luc says, steady and firm. “You don’t owe us any explanations about your personal relationship. You give us a _lot_ of yourselves. You’re not obliged to give us any more than that.”

“Luc and I have just - we’ve been where you are,” Sophie adds. “For about a decade, nearly every conversation about us pivoted from our skating to our relationship. We know how that feels.”

Jughead shifts around in his chair. “I know the conventional wisdom is that you should never date your partner - ”

“Screw the conventional wisdom,” Luc cuts in. Betty feels like she could hug him for that. “We didn’t bring you here to chastise you, I hope you know that - we brought you here because, yeah, we’ve got to discuss this, because it’s going to be part of the conversation in the media, but also because we’ve been where you are, like Soph said, and it’s confusing as fuck.”

“I don’t want to be confused,” Betty blurts out. “I want to win. I - I watched the NBC coverage of our free and Aria Moore said we were skating safe. She was right, and I don’t want her to be. I want to skate...big. I want to skate Olympic. It’s… it’s like you said, we put so much into skating. I’m okay with people talking about that. People should be talking about that. But everything else… ” She allows herself to look at Jughead, finally. His eyes are pinned to her face and he’s tuned into her, completely, in that way that can make everything around them feel distant. “Everything else is ours,” she finishes quietly, so quietly that it occurs to her a beat later that their coaches might not even have heard her.

But they did - they’re both nodding when she and Jughead swivel their heads to look across the table once again.

“We can help you skate Olympic,” Luc says. “Hell, we can help you skate Olympic podium. And we’ll all agree to leave everything off-ice _off_ of the ice. Yeah?”

Betty nods. Jughead’s fingers tap lightly along her thigh.

“I know you have Odette,” Sophie says. “But if you ever - we’re here off the ice, too. If there’s anything you need to talk about, we can talk about it. Off the ice, away from the rink - we can do this kind of thing in Montreal,” she says, tipping her head in such a way that gestures to their surroundings. “We care about Betty and Jughead. Not just Cooper and Jones.”

“Thank you, Sophie,” Betty says sincerely, releasing a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Sophie nods at her, smiling softly. “Any time,” she says pointedly, her words just as earnest.

“You’re our favourites,” Luc says. “Don’t tell.”

Sophie gives her husband a wide-eyed, incredulous look and hisses something at him in French; he holds up his hands in surrender.

“I’m _kidding_ ,” he says. “They know I’m kidding.”

Jughead nods, the shadow of a smile lurking around his lips. “You’re extremely impartial. Very professional.” He looks down at his menu. “Are we going to order actual food?”

“Man after my own heart,” Luc says. “Of course we are. What are you thinking?”

Betty examines the first page of her own menu, which lists à la carte options like fruit salad and vanilla yogurt and one or two poached eggs. While she’s doing the mental math regarding approximate calories, Sophie reaches across the table and flips the menu over, and Betty comes face-to-face with eggs benedict and sausages and pancakes.

“I’m getting the French toast,” Sophie tells her, and after just one moment of hesitation, Betty decides that she will, too.

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Back in Montreal, Betty tries her very best to make the time they spend on the ice about skating and only skating. She can see that Jughead’s doing the same thing - he doesn’t touch her quite so much in between run-throughs now, and at one point she catches sight of his hand in her peripheral vision, fingers curling into a fist, resisting the temptation to tuck a stray curl of her hair behind her ear. Betty opens a bobby pin with her teeth and secures the lock of hair out of her face herself, a strange, sinking feeling in her stomach distracting her from Sophie’s instructions, so that she makes the exact same mistake in their subsequent spin.

Things are messy at first: they’re both trying too hard, skating so fiercely that they lose control. Their twizzles are completely out of sync and they stumble through the simplest pieces of choreography. She catches the bafflement in the faces of all their training partners; the unspoken _what the hell is up with those two?_ and the knowing, muted snickers that follow. It drives her crazy, and she pours that frustration into Jughead in his bed or in her car, drinking his vexation in in turn, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. It takes every ounce of Luc’s infinite patience to get them back on track, to run through eight counts of their dance at a time until they’re finally starting to balance on that sliver of a line between safe and chaotic, that line of success. Betty feels terrible when she spots Sophie kneading her fingers into his neck by the boards once day, trying to ease the tension put there by two Olympic hopefuls who can’t seem to get their shit together.

“How are you feeling?” Odette asks them during a Wednesday evening session, and Betty says, “Happy,” which is an honest answer, because she _is_ happy. She’s happy every time Jughead kisses her in the middle of a laugh, and she’s happy when they float through their step sequences like they could do them in their sleep.

She just wishes she could stop feeling like she’s on the verge of throwing up every night when she closes her eyes and tries to sink into slumber.  
  
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At their next competition in Moscow, they come in second. It’s not what they want, not by a long shot, but it’s enough to get them to the Grand Prix Final, and Betty tells herself, repeatedly, that _enough_ is perfectly adequate, _enough_ is all she needs.

“We did our best,” Jughead tells her as they take their place behind the gold medal winners for a final victory lap around the ice. He’s wearing that bracing, confident smile that is so _obviously_ fake to Betty that she’s always a little astounded when everyone else in the world seems to buy it. She nods at him and tightens her grip on his hand and hears, as distinctly as if he’d spoken them, the two words left unsaid: _didn’t we?_

Her parents are back in Riverdale. Luc and Sophie are visiting old competitors-slash-friends. In the room she shares with Isabelle, Betty curls her hair into waves and pins the front sections back, does her very best smokey eye, and slips into an off-the-shoulder blue dress that clings to every single muscle that she’s trained so hard for.

Isabelle’s eyes expand at the sight of her. “You are going to kill Forsythe before he ever gets to Olympic ice,” she says in her lilting accent, then purses her lips playfully. “Not that I’d mind.”

Betty halfheartedly swats at her with the silver clutch she has yet to fill. Normally, their fellow skates are quite good at managing to pretend to ignore what she and Jughead have going on, but tonight she doesn’t mind Isabelle’s comment. She feels remarkably carefree for a girl whose season seems to be veering off-track. Even though they’re headed to a competition gala, the night’s not about skating. It’s just not.

She tells Jughead as much with her body when she greets him in the hallway, kissing him full on the lips. He seems startled for an instant before pressing his hand firmly into her lower back, holding her as close to him as physically possible. They kiss until Max, one half of the Russian pair, walks by them and yanks at Jughead’s arm with a roll of his eyes, but even then, Jughead doesn’t let go of her. He tucks his face into her neck, and she can feel him breathe her in, hotel-issued body wash and floral perfume and whatever scents are all her own. Betty sighs and thinks, _I love you._

Not _I love you, skating-partner-Jughead._ Not _I love you, best-friend-Jughead._ Not even _I love you, lifetime-companion-Jughead._ Just: _I love you._

She imagines she’s a little wide-eyed when he finally lifts his head and looks at her. He’s smiling, his _real_ smile, wry at its edges but so profoundly soft that looking at it for too long makes her stomach ache. He swipes his thumb over her bottom lip, erasing lipstick smears, and assures her, “Fixed it.”

Betty kisses him again for that, petal pink smudging outside of her liplines all over again.

She leaves stamps of that lipstick on shot glasses down in the ballroom where the gala’s being held, trying to match Max and his partner, Elena, drink for drink. The vodka makes her choke and cough but when Max teases, _oh, such a delicate American_ , her competitive spirit rears its head and she grabs another glass. Jughead laughs and rubs her back when she cringes as she swallows. Neither of them are big drinkers - and she knows that for him it’s about more than their strict training diet and the fact that they’ve only recently reached Quebec’s legal age - but he’s throwing back shots right alongside her and she recognizes in him what she feels in herself. She just wants to be a teenager, now, before their adolescence slips away entirely. An irresponsible one, even.

Eventually Max and Elena leave them, snarking just a little about how they don’t want to give America’s sweethearts alcohol poisoning, and Betty tucks her head down against Jughead’s shoulder. She can’t remember how she ended up there, on his lap; after all these years, her brain is more likely to note when she’s _not_ touching Jughead than when she is.

Slowly, she runs her fingertips along the line of buttons on the front of his shirt. “You look really good tonight,” she says, and feel his fingers tighten against her hip, all their little muscles clenching. Jughead looking so good right now, and feeling like she does right now, light and airy but grounded by his arm around her - these things deserve to be documented. She lifts her head and grabs her clutch off the table, takes her phone out, and holds it up with the camera front-facing. “Smile,” she tells him, and presses a kiss against his cheek as she snaps the photo.

“One more,” he says, gently nudging her chin with his fingers, turning her face toward the camera. She tips her head, resting her temple against his, and smiles her sweetest smile. It ends up being a great picture. She’ll look at it again in the morning, when she’s sober, and maybe post it on her instagram if their eyes and flushed cheeks don’t betray their intoxication. For the moment, she just sends the first picture to Archie on WhatsApp and types, _Russians take their vodka very seriously. Wish you could get silly with us._

Archie responds almost immediately; one o’clock in the morning in Moscow is only six in the evening in Riverdale. _get it jug!!_ his message reads, which makes Betty roll her eyes.

Seconds later, she gets another message: _sorry, ronnie says i’m being a bad feminist._ And then, seconds after that, _you get it too betts._

Jughead, reading the messages over her shoulder, laughs and presses a quick, soft kiss to her jaw. “Don’t encourage him,” he says. Once they’d confirmed to Archie that they were together, he’d asked questions, but, to his credit, had backed off quite quickly when they were evasive in response. Betty’s been grateful for his easy, characteristic acceptance, for the fact that he hasn't demanded all the details she wants to keep just for _them_ , and she knows Jughead is too - but she also knows that if Veronica ever gets her alone in a room, she’s in for an interrogation.

She tucks her phone back into her clutch and sighs at the feeling of Jughead’s fingers kneading gently into the tense muscles of her neck. She shifts on his lap, getting more comfortable, and rests her cheek against his shoulder once again.

“How’re you doing, baby?” he asks, his thumb stroking over her thigh as he tucks his face down next to hers.

“I’m good,” she murmurs, and then with even greater intention and meaning says, “I’m _good_. Jug, I’m good.”

He sighs into the side of her jaw, and then his nose is nudging hers, and she knows what he’s asking for right away. She tilts her chin up a bit for a kiss, cupping his cheek in her palm. She feels daring tonight, and reckless, something besides Russian vodka buzzing through her veins. She coaxes his mouth open with her own and glides the tip of her tongue teasingly along his lower lip.

“Fuck,” he breathes into her mouth, his hand gripping the back of her neck. “Fuck, me too, but - ”

 _But should we be?_ is what he never gets a chance to say as she shifts on his lap again. With her hair falling around her face, a curtain that shields her from view, she traces the shell of his ear with her tongue. No, they shouldn’t be good. They should be angry, and they should be hungry, and she is, but above all else she’s petrified, because channeling her anger and hunger productively does not involve nibbling on her partner’s ear after a Grand Prix they’ve just lost - it involves a conversation she refuses to even consider having. They’ve _had_ a conversation, and they decided that it wasn't possible to have too much of a good thing. And the almost-pained sound Jughead makes low in his throat, the way he’s touching her right now, with absolutely no free dance storyline and only _want_ , only what’s _real_ , guiding his fingers - it’s a good thing. It’s the best thing.

 _Besides the Olympics,_ whispers the rational part of her brain, but Jughead’s looking at her now, their mouths so close, murmuring, “I think we should go to bed early,” and that’s the only thing she chooses to hear.

Up in his hotel room, they lock themselves in the bathroom lest Andrew decide he wants to turn in while the gala’s still going. She hops up onto the counter by the sink, and Jughead comes to stand between her legs immediately. Her dress has ridden up high, and he slides one hand up each of her thighs so slowly that she almost squirms, until the tips of his long fingers brush against the edges of her underwear.

“Juggie,” she says with a little smile, means _hurry up_ , and he kisses her, but he takes his time with that too, demanding nothing in the press of his lips against hers, kissing her like he’d be content to do just this forever, despite her obvious intention to do more. Betty sinks into his kisses, unbuttoning his shirt at the same unhurried pace their mouths are moving together. There is something heavy in the air, as though the bathroom had been filled with steam before their arrival, but she knows it's been empty for hours. 

When her impatience gets the better of her, she breaks their kiss with the aim of uttering his name again, but the single syllable, _Jug_ , dies on her tongue. Instead, she draws her legs together and fits them between their bodies, forcing him back a bit, and slides down off the counter. He looks at her with a furrowed brow, but rather than offering an explanation, she just drops to her knees.

She rids him of his dress pants and boxers quickly, his knuckles brushing up and down the side of her jaw the entire time. She knows what he’s saying - _you don’t have to_ \- so she grabs his hand, kisses his palm, and then, full of the same determination with which she strokes out onto the ice each day, takes him into her mouth.

She’s never done this before, not in all the time they’ve been together; when she’s made a move to, once or twice, she’s always been met with _you don’t have to_ and a gentle hand on her jaw. Betty’s done a lot of things, in her life, that she has to. This, however, is something she wants. Making her boyfriend feel good in every way she possibly can is something she wants.

She’s nervous that she’ll do something wrong, or that she won’t be good at this, or good enough, but the groan that rips out of Jughead’s mouth and the way he grips her hair seem like positive signs. She draws her mouth down slowly, hollowing her cheeks, and gives her tongue an experimental flick. He says, “ _Betts_ ,” and she feels his thumb, pressing oh-so-gently into the space just beneath her skull, and she takes it as a signal that he wants her to take him deeper again.

He guides her like that, with pressure from his fingertips and the occasional pull of a handful of her hair and the sounds that he makes, into the rhythm and speed that he needs, helping her know this part of him as well as she does all others.

It’s with a strained sort of roughness in his voice that he says, “Betty, I’m gonna - ” and gently pushes her head away. He comes across the sweetheart neckline of her dress.

His hand on her shoulder, his muscles trembling under the hand she’s got on one of his legs, he murmurs, “Shit, babe, I’m so sorry.” His eyes are half-lidded and so dark that they’re mesmerizing.

“It’s okay,” Betty says as he slips his hand to her elbow to help ease her to her feet. She reaches behind herself, and with only a bit of contorting, undoes her dress’ zipper and pushes it to the floor.

Jughead leans against the counter and pulls her to him, his hands finding her breasts as they kiss. His fingers skim over lace; whenever she’s wearing something pretty rather than a sports bra, he always takes the time to appreciate it. She arches into his touch to let him know that he can slip his hands into the cups.

Eventually, he turns them around and gets rid of her panties before boosting her up onto the counter again. Condom from his wallet in place, he pushes into her, and Betty wraps both her arms and legs tightly around him, mewling softly into his shoulder. She’s always felt like Jughead was the other half of a whole to which she also belonged, and when their bodies are pressed as close together as they can possibly be, that feeling almost seems like a reality.

Still, though, it’s not enough. She hisses, “More,” against his ear as he thrusts into her, her breath catching around a high-pitched sound of pleasure that escapes her. Her nails dig into his back. “ _More._ ”

Thirty minutes later, when the dress of her neckline has been rinsed and blow-dried, and they’re both clothed again, he walks her down the hall to her room. In the doorway, he kisses her goodnight, and she clings to his hand, unwilling to let him go. He tips his forehead down to rest it against hers.

“We’ll take the Final,” he swears to her, and her lips curl into a sleepy, sated smile.

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They don’t. Take the Final, that is. They come second to the British team, who out-skate them by 0.8 points. Betty arrives in Paris full of breathless exuberance, her camera roll cleared out in preparation for all the selfies she plans to force a faux-reluctant Jughead to take with her in front of the Eiffel Tower, but the silver stings so badly that they spend the day after the Final ends sitting on her hotel bed in non-USFSA sweats, eating room service and watching _The Umbrellas of Cherbourg_ with no subtitles.

Across the Atlantic again, Luc looks into their eyes with such intensity that Betty’s scared to blink. “We want to peak at the right moment, yeah?” he says. “This year, that’s Nationals. Then Olympics. Late season.”

They nod, heads bobbing at the exact same moment, and the rest of December disappears in a haze of ice, slipping and sliding across the parking lot every morning and night, gliding smoothly over the oval of the rink, its pure white surface ready to be written on by the blades beneath their feet.

They spend Christmas in Montreal to allow more time for training; they practice on both the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth. The morning of the holiday is spent at the gym, followed by dinner with their respective host families, after which Betty drives from her house to Jughead’s and joins him and Amie on the couch in the family room to watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas._ When the movie ends, Jughead walks her out to her car. Their feet crunch in tandem through new-fallen snow and Betty likes the poetry of it, likes the way the patterns on the soles of their boots move into fresh territory together.

Jughead pushes her back against the side of her car, his hands rough but his fingers so gentle as they curl into her quilted coat. Behind her eyelids, when he kisses her, she can see the soft, warm glow of the nearest streetlamp. His mouth tastes like a sugar cookie and for one extraordinary instant, Betty forgets about the Olympics entirely.

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They arrive in Utah for the national championships with their game faces on and their programs embedded so deeply in the memory of their muscles that Betty’s been dreaming about skating every single night, waking up with her limbs tangled in her sheets. She dozes against Jughead’s shoulder during the flight from Toronto, waking only when the wheels of the plane hit the runway. She sits up abruptly, her eyes attempting to focus on his face with her dreams (skating, as always) still lingering in the corners of her vision.

His face is serious, and full of focus. She can see the place in his jaw where his muscles are clenched, and she touches that place with her fingertips, willing the tension away. “We - ” she begins, and he grabs her hand with his own and holds it atop the armrest between their seats.

She doesn’t need to say anything else, because Jughead nods and she watches his mouth make the shape of _us_ , teeth nearly knocking together behind his lips. It’s her turn to nod, then, and they stay like that for several seconds after the seatbelt sign has been turned off and the rest of the passengers have begun to rustle.

Practice goes well on the first day of competition, and their performance, to Betty’s great relief, goes even better. Their results for the tango put them firmly in first place, and she’s so deeply satisfied by their results that she throws her arms around Jughead in an impulsive hug when he leans in to kiss her cheek in the kiss-and-cry. When a reporter asks, later, if she thought her partner did well during the short dance, she forgets to feel frustrated, forgets to be recalcitrant, and beams right at Jughead and the quiet euphoria in his eyes and says, “He’s the best.”

(“It’s ours, babe,” he whispered to her when the hugged on the ice after their tango, the strength of his grasp such that he almost lifted her into the air. “It’s ours.”)

Betty does everything right that night. She has her session with her physiotherapist. She eats an extremely balanced meal. She takes a shower and does a face mask in an effort to achieve relaxation. Shortly after eight, she tiptoes down the hotel hallway in her pyjamas and meets Jughead by the ice machine, and they kiss with buckets of ice resting against each of their hips, but only for a minute. Only a minute.

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They lap around the rink before their free dance, warming up while the previous team gets their scores, their hands clasped, slowly picking up speed. Betty takes a deep breath in and releases it as slowly as she can. Beneath the sound of their blades cutting through the ice, she can hear the purposefully steady pattern of Jughead’s breathing.

They meet each other’s eyes as they skate to centre ice. “Together,” she whispers to him, without even blinking.

His hand tightens around hers before he lets go. “On every count,” he replies.

The opening notes of their music sound through the cool air, and Betty begins to skate. When she falls artistically into Jughead’s arms a few beats later, she hears him whispers, “ _Yes._ ”

Their whirl around the ice, moving into dance hold and out of it. Their twizzles are met with applause. The entry into their straight-line lift is perfectly executed; she can _feel_ the crowd holding its breath as she tilts her chin up to make the line of her neck as long as possible. It’s her turn to whisper, “ _Yes_ ,” as Jughead sets her back down on the ice.

Minutes one through three are good. It’s in the fourth minute, the very last, that the unthinkable happens.

They’re rounding a corner, gaining speed and momentum, mere counts away from the entry into their curve lift. She can’t understand what happens; either Jughead isn’t moving quite fast enough, or she’s moving too quickly, or some combination of the two. But what happens doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is the result, and the result is this: Betty’s skate collides with Jughead’s, and she trips. He reaches for her instinctively, and in his attempts to keep her from falling, he goes down too, and they end up in a pile on the ice.

A collective gasp emanates through the arena. Blood rings in her ears. Years and years of training have instilled into her that she _needs_ to get right back up, so she does, and thankfully, once she’s up on her skates again, Jughead’s right there next to her, taking her hand and pulling her into the next piece of choreography. She can’t quite tell if it’s his hand or hers that’s shaking, and muscle memory is the only thing that guides her through the next forty seconds.

They finish in their ending pose, each of them with one knee on the ice, wrapped in each other’s arms. It’s her that’s shaking, she discovers, trembling all over, perhaps from the force of the fall, or maybe just the horror she feels in the aftermath. Jughead cups the back of her neck with his hand before he slowly lets her go and - no, it’s him, too. He’s shaking, too.

She presses her palms into the cold, hard surface beneath them, staring at it uncomprehendingly. She doesn’t understand how this could’ve happened. Did this really happen?

Jughead’s hands land on her upper arms. “You’re bleeding, babe,” he says lowly, still trying to catch his breath.

She blinks down at her knee and discovers that he’s right. She must have cut herself, though she didn’t feel at the time.

“We need to clean that up,” he says, and gets up, taking her hands to pull her to her feet, and she looks at him with unspeakable gratitude. A task, a concrete task, is the thing her brain desperately needs to cling to right now.

They take their bows, and Betty plasters on a smile despite the tears that sting her eyes every time she curtsies.

 _Clean your knee,_ she reminds herself, as Jughead wraps an arm around her waist. She slides an arm around him in turn, automatically. _You need to clean your knee._ She forces her feet to move, one and then the other.

Luc is standing right by the boards, a couple feet in front of his wife. Sophie’s expression is measured, giving away absolutely nothing, but there’s something so soft and almost fatherly in Luc’s eyes that Betty cracks, bursting into tears as she steps off of the ice and into his arms, not bothering to put on her guards.

“You did good, you did good,” he says, his voice a quiet rush, one hand resting firmly against her back as she sobs into his jacket. “Pulled it together like pros, nailed the ending. You did good.”

There is suddenly a camera looming close as Betty tries, gasping, to pull herself together yet again. She hears Jughead’s voice, low and pissed off, demanding, “Hey, get that out of here.” A beat later it’s Sophie’s voice, cool and steely as she says, “Take a step back, please. Take a step back. Thank you.”

Luc steers her toward the kiss and cry. In front of them, through the blur of her tears, Betty can see Sophie doing the same to Jughead. Luc presses a teddy bear tossed by a fan into her hands, and she squeezes it tightly, channeling all her frustration and sadness into poor Winnie the Pooh.

Once they’re seated, the screens in front of them replay moments from their routine in slo-mo. She can’t bear to watch, so she turns toward Jughead instead and wraps her arms around him. Pooh falls to the floor by her skates as he exhales against her hair, hugging her back tightly, his fingertips digging into her body hard enough to hurt. When they release each other, his hands come up to cup her face, thumbs brushing away the tear-streaks on her cheeks. She lifts her hands to cover his as they press their foreheads together. She can just barely hear the soft coo of the audience coming from very, very far away, as though everyone else in the arena is underwater.

 _Together_ , she can practically hear Jughead think. She meets his sorrowful eyes with her bloodshot ones and tells him, without words, _Always._

“The scores, please,” the announcer says, her crisp words breaking into the moment.

Sophie pats their backs. “Heads held high,” she says, gentle and firm all at once.

They raise their chins at the exact same moment. Betty grabs Jughead’s knee as he puts a hand on her thigh, and they lift their gazes to the scoreboard together, watching as their names drop from the first spot to the third.

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The several subsequent minutes seem to happen _to_ Betty, rather than involving her directly. Somehow, she leaves the kiss-and-cry; somehow, the scrape on her knee is attended to. Somehow, she survives the medal ceremony and even manages to make her mouth say _thank you_ to the officials who shake her hand. The bronze medal hanging heavy around her neck somehow does not cause her to topple to the ground and sink straight down into the earth. There is a victory lap that feels anything but victorious, after which Jughead’s hand slips out of hers, and then, somehow, she finds herself alone in the women’s change room, crying her heart out. Her fingers fist around the fabric of her dress, her pretty dress, gauzy white and sprinkled with periwinkle flower petals, perfect for a Parisian afternoon, perfect for falling in love, perfect for the moment every athlete dreams of -

Even through the fabric, she can feel her nails biting into her palms. The faint sting feels good.

The door opens, and before Betty can even swipe at her face, Polly rushes in, her expression bursting with sympathy, her own eyes red. “Oh, Betty,” she breathes, and hurries over to the bench where Betty sits. Polly sits down right next to her and wraps her in a hug, but Betty doesn’t turn in to her sister’s embrace, keeping her eyes on the doorway instead. Sophie is there, holding the door ajar, and Alice stands at the entrance of the room. The disappointment that flickers through her mother’s eyes is unmistakable, and Betty nearly shrinks into herself, but before she can the door begins to close, her coach disappearing behind it, and she blurts, “Sophie.”

She hardly recognizes her own voice; it’s so small and clogged with tears. She swallows hard before she says, “Jughead.”

Sophie nods at her, understanding. “Luc is with him,” she promises, and then slips from the room.

Betty cries for a long time between her mother and her sister, Polly cooing comforts at her softly as their mother strokes her hair. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she manages to choke out between sobs, feeling about four years old, and she hears her mother sigh.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Alice says sadly. She kisses the top of Betty’s head.

Some time after that - minutes or hours or maybe even days - someone appears to gently remind Betty that, as a bronze medalist, she still has to perform their exhibition number, and she almost bursts out laughing at the extent of the terrible day she’s having.

Their exhibition program this year is set to “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” It’s a crowd-pleaser: everyone knows the song, and Sophie’s put together some flirtatious, creative choreography for them. It’s the absolute last thing Betty wants to do right now, but she’s already created so much disappointment today, so she gets up, changes into her red dress, and ties her hair up into a playful, bouncy ponytail.

“Have fun, okay?” Polly says, watching her worriedly. Betty wants to give her sister a _yeah, of course!_ sort of smile, but she just can’t. She has to save every bit of faux joy for when she’s out on the ice.

She and Jughead find each other in the dark space behind the boards, all the lights in the arena dimmed save for the bright spotlights over the ice. The other skaters around them are chatting and there is the occasional quiet burst of laughter. Betty looks at Jughead in the midst of it all and doesn’t know what to say.

After a tense, miserable moment, he loops his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to his side, resting his forehead against her temple. She slips an arm around him, too, and rests her free hand against his chest, trying to find comfort in the steady thump of his heart. They release each other when the first skater takes the ice, clapping politely, and then watch all of the performances that precede theirs without touching each other at all.

They find each other’s hands again just before they’re announced as the bronze medalists, and they stroke out onto the ice with their feet moving in unison. Betty dredges up an approximation of a smile from somewhere deep inside herself and orders it to stay on her face. Jughead’s fingertips ghost down the length of her arm before they take their opening pose.

They dance. The audience cheers. No one falls. Betty’s wide smile makes her cheeks ache.

_This thing called love. I just can’t handle it._

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Afterwards, they walk down the cool halls of the arena, hands still clasped from when they skated off the ice together. They walk past the women’s change room and the men’s change room and the washrooms, and Betty doesn’t need to look at Jughead to know that he’s also seen the slightly-scuffed blue door labelled _Custodian._

He turns the knob, and it gives, so they step inside the dark space that smells of chemicals. The moment the door has drifted shut again, Jughead presses her against it and puts his mouth on hers, kissing her deeply. Betty responds in kind, sinking her fingers into his hair and hitching her legs up around his waist. He supports her thighs with his hands and she should probably remind him to be gentle - they still have to go back out onto the ice for the finale - but she doesn’t. She wants nothing more than to get them both out of their costumes and to feel the way she always does when their bodies click together like perfectly designed puzzle pieces: like he’s the only other person in the world, and he belongs to her. She also wonders if, were they to have sex right now (and they can’t, she knows they can’t, there’s still the fucking finale), it would be rough and raw in ways from which she would never recover.

“Jug,” she sighs. There is a sob trapped somewhere in her chest; it feels like it’s trying to smother her heart.

He kisses her neck, his breath so hot against her skin. “We were never like this,” he murmurs. “Before.”

Betty’s fingers tighten into a fist in his hair. “No,” she agrees. “We weren’t.” They used to be good enough in practices that all they had to do during competition was step out onto the ice and trust their training. Lately, though, they’ve been so distracted by one another that their training has been inconsistent, and some days it’s been a complete wreck - just like they were during their free dance.

“I’m gonna put you down,” he warns her softly, and takes a small step back, his hands slipping up her thighs and over her ass as he eases her to the floor.

She presses her hands to his chest, over his soft white t-shirt. He looks so all-American in his outfit, a white tee and jeans. He looks like the kind of boy she’d hope would ask her to a movie. She slides both her hands inward, seeking out the familiar thrum of his heartbeat yet again. She doesn’t know why she feels like it’s something she’s about to lose. “I’m so sorry, Jughead,” she whispers. Her voice comes out all strangled and tight; it’s not a pretty sound.

“Betty - no, don’t,” he says, his hands settling on her hips automatically. “ _Don’t_. Win together, lose together, fuck up together - I don’t even know what happened out there, honestly, but it’s not your fault. We’re a team. _I’m_ sorry.”

“It’s not _your_ fault.”

His eyes move over her face slowly, almost studiously. “It’s _our_ fault.”

She takes a slow breath in, feeling his chest rise in tandem under her hands. “Did we ruin it?” she asks, her voice even lower than a whisper now.

He sighs and lifts a hand to her face, his thumb rubbing over her cheek. “Betts… ”

“We’ve never lied to each other,” she reminds him, the words shaky in her mouth. “And I don’t think now is the time to start.”

Jughead sighs again, even more heavily this time. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just keep thinking - we were one step away on that podium from getting there. From going to Beijing.”

“I don’t understand it,” she says, her throat tightening. “I feel like we should be even better. Even more connected. It’s always been the thing that helps us, that we’re close, and now we’re even _closer_ , so…”

“Sometimes we’re skating and I… I should be thinking about the rocker coming up or building the right amount of momentum or finding that centre in our curve lift but I - but you look at me, and it’s good, you’re _supposed_ to look at me, Henri would lose it if you _didn’t_ look at me, but you look at me and I just… I see you in my bed, for a second, and it’s only a second, but… ” He gives his head a small shake. “Betts, you’re just so…”

Betty flushes. Most of the time she doesn’t feel _so_ anything; she feels like a walking ball of nerves, like a girl who could really stand to lose those final two pounds she just can’t seem to shake. But she knows what he means. Sometimes his lips graze hers on the ice and for just an instant, she’s back on the couch in his father’s trailer in Riverdale.

“I know,” she tells him softly. “It happens for me, too. I love you.” She pauses. She’s said those three words to him so many times over the course of their lives and that’s not how she means them right now. “I’m in love with you, Jughead.”

He kisses her, then, hot and fast like he just can’t help himself. “I’m in love with you, too.” The next kiss he gives her is soft. “I love you, Betty Cooper.”

She beams at him for one precious, blissful moment, and he looks back at her with the devotion she’s become accustomed to seeing in his face, but this time it’s even more acute, utterly unguarded. She tiptoes up somewhat awkwardly on her skate guards to kiss him one last time.

“We’ve worked our whole lives for this,” she says quietly once she’s steadily back on her feet. Her eyes are sore from all the crying she’s done and they sting when her gaze collides with his, half-shadowed as blue searches green. “Since - since we were _eight._ And today we let everyone down. Including each other.”

Jughead nods. The lines of his face are severe now and Betty knows, the way she always knows, that he understands exactly what she hasn’t managed to say aloud. _It’s killing me. What we’ve done is killing me._ “Looks like we… " He clears his throat. “Like we can’t have our cake and eat it, too.”

“And we can’t give up now, can we?” she asks, almost plaintive. _Of course we can’t,_ she thinks, while simultaneously pleading with him: _tell me that we can’t._ “We were so close today. And so many people have poured so much into this - our parents and Luc and Sophie and Henri and Ruth and - ”

He rubs at her upper arms. “I know.”

“I want to win, Jughead,” she tells him tremulously. “I want that with you.”

“Me too. I always have.”

“And… this?” she murmurs.

His voice buried deep in his throat, Jughead says, “Sometimes I think I’ve wanted this for just as long.”

“Juggie,” she breathes; means _don’t make this harder._ She thinks she’d say yes in an instant if he asked her to quit being a skater and just be his girlfriend. She think she’d say no in an instant if he asked her, a girl with a dream that miraculously became a plan, to give up on it. Both the answers are right there, tangled in her throat. She doesn’t know which one would come out first.

“I know,” he says again, and she trusts that he does. “Babe, _believe_ me, I know. I haven’t watched you agonize over whether or not you can eat _one_ more fucking almond or put up with bullying for half of my life or moved to Canada just to stop now, when we’re one step away. I know we can do this. It won’t be Beijing, but we can be at the top of that podium in Denver. We owe it to ourselves. To each other.” He leans in close but stops short of a kiss. “I want that gold medal for you more than I want it for myself.”

She brushes her fingertips over his lips. “And I want it for you.”

“We can go back to how it was. We can take the next four years and get it all back. We can be great again. We can be unbeatable again. We can - it can be magic again. And I’ll… I’ll love you like I used to. Like I did when we were kids. Like my best friend.” There’s a little tremor running through his words, a thread of uncertainty. Betty doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince her or himself. He locks his gaze with hers. “Can you do that?”

She doesn’t know if she can. The way she loves him, now, is so much more than teenaged infatuation. It’s more, even, than the kind of love between high school sweethearts that actually has a chance to make it in the real world. Her love for him spans years and every one of the countries they’ve ever visited for competition. It feels larger than the universe sometimes but it also lives inside of her, just like he does - the way he’s in her head, in her breathing, in the race of her heart after a free dance and the clench of it when he smiles at her like _that_.

She doesn’t know if she can go back, but she knows that she has to tell him that she can, because she can see in his eyes that if she doesn’t, he’ll fold with her, and they’ll cease to be Cooper and Jones, star ice dancing team, and just become Betty and Jughead, two kids who will hold hands and share plates of fries, and they’ll never have seen an Olympics, never have reached for that star that’s been dangling above their heads for a decade.

“Yes,” she says.

It’s the very first lie she’s ever told him, so she follows it up with a truth, her voice so choked with tears it’s almost inaudible, “I _love_ you. Forever.”

“I love you back. Forever.” Jughead pulls her into a crushing hug, arms wrapped tightly around her, his nose digging against her scalp, his hands splayed wide across her back, like this is the very last time he’ll ever touch her.

It’s not, of course. They take the ice for the finale number a few minutes later hand in hand, and the vague and quickly-planned choreography dictates that they show off their most difficult lift, the one that almost left him with a scar across his face in practice, their hands carefully placed on one another’s bodies for optimum balance. Jughead twirls her around by the hand when they do their bows. They skate a final lap with their fingers intertwined.

But it’s different.

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Betty spends the night crying in her hotel bed. She tells her parents she just wants to sleep, but Polly, who listens to her sniffle and gasp, knows the truth.

“Betty,” her sister says softly, laying atop the blankets next to where Betty is huddled beneath them. “If you really… if you love him, then - ”

She shakes her head, hard, and ducks into her blanket cocoon. Her tears make a puddle on her pillow.

In the morning, she takes a shower, packs her things, and goes to the airport with her family. “Luc said they’ll give me a ride,” Jughead explains when she looks over her shoulder to see him hanging back, not following them through the hotel doors. She looks at his scuffed-up sneakers rather than his face when she whispers, “Okay.”

One of his sneakers inches forward on the floor, like he’s about to move toward her, but he doesn’t.

At the gate for the flight headed for JFK, Betty steps into three different hugs. The last one is from her father, who smells very faintly of grease and like the aftershave he’s worn for as long as she can remember. Her face crumples against his shirt.

“I’m so sorry you spent all that money, Daddy,” she says as they pull apart, her words coming out on gasps as she tries to squash her emotions.

Her father looks stunned, glancing quickly in her mother’s direction. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “I - we just want you to be happy.”

His words fall flat as a tear drips off her chin.

On the plane, she rests her head against the wall beside the window rather than on Jughead’s shoulder. She spends the whole flight pretending to sleep.

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Louise and Guillaume greet her with a single hug, coming at her from both sides.

“You skated beautifully,” Louise says, stroking Betty’s hair just like her mother did. They let her know that there’s a tub of her favourite hummus in the fridge, and then, thankfully, they let her be.

In her room, she spends a long time staring at the cork board on her wall that’s covered in photographs and other random paraphernalia. There she is with Jughead, at age eight, in their costumes for their very first skating competition. There they are at age eleven, laughing on the tilt-a-whirl at a fair in Greendale. There they are at twelve, so awkward in the first grips of puberty, gangly arms thrown around each other. There they are at fourteen, medals around their necks and smiles on their faces. At sixteen, on their very first day at the Montreal rink, a selfie she took to send to her mother, their cheeks pressed tightly together. Last year, at Skate America, after they took the gold, sharing private smiles about something with bouquets in their hands. There’s a slip of paper from a fortune cookie: _your dreams are closer than you think._ There are the little cards cards with a floral design that marked their seats at an overseas gala; Jughead said she could take both home. There’s the valentine he gave her in the fifth grade, _to the best partner ever._ There are the ticket stubs from the one movie they’ve had time to see in the past two years; she bought a great big diet soda and he bought liquorice, just like they used to in Riverdale.

He’s her whole life.

She goes to bed early, shortly after eight, and closes her eyes, ordering herself to fall asleep. Her mind doesn’t listen to her, however, so she tosses and turns and relives a million moments with Jughead, in the past few months and in the past ten years, until the glowing-green numbers on her alarm clock read 12:47. Deeply frustrated, she throws back all her blankets, slips out of her pyjamas and into leggings and a t-shirt, and tiptoes downstairs, where she shrugs into her jacket as she shoves her feet into her boots.

The drive to Jughead’s host family’s house is brief. She parks down the block, against the curb, rather than in the driveway, and tiptoes past the front walkway and around to the side of the house. She crouches down by the basement window that she knows is closest to his bed and raps her fingers against the glass.

His face appears behind the window a moment later, rumpled from sleep and with pillow marks pressed into his face. She wants to touch him, to trace her fingers over those faint red lines.

“Betts?” he asks as he opens the window.

“Can I come in?” she replies.

It takes him a moment to wrestle the screen out, and then she shimmies her way feet-first through the window frame, its opening just wide enough to accommodate her hips. Jughead helps ease her to the ground, like they’re coming out of a lift, like he’s helping her down from a podium.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, dragging a hand through his messy hair. The hope in his eyes, cautious and tempered but definitely, without question, _there_ , kind of makes her want to die.

“I needed to talk to someone,” she says shakily. “And you’re my someone.”

His eyes go soft even as the hope drains out of them. “Betty,” he sighs.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” she tells him. “But I didn’t want to. I love… I loved him, and I - god, I’m so _sad_ ,” she confesses, her voice cracking. “I miss him so much. Even though he’s still here. Right here.”

“I miss you, too, Betts,” he says quietly. “I - can I hug you?”

Tears flood her eyes, and she feels like stomping her foot, like protesting how unfair all of this feels, even though it was a decision they made themselves, a decision she knows they had to make. “I don’t want you to have to _ask_ that.”

“Shit, Betty, don’t cry,” he sighs, and then he closes the distance between them and wraps her up in his arms. A cool winter breeze is still blowing in through his open window, but he’s so warm that she hardly feels it at her back. She clutches at his t-shirt and breathes in the scent of him, half earthy, half informed by a body wash she helped him pick out at their local Jean Coutu.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I don’t know how to...turn off that part of us. Of me.”

Jughead’s grip on her tightens until it’s almost painful. Into her hair, he says, “I don’t want you to.”

She pulls back enough to look up into his face. “I - ” _I have to._

His nose grazes, just barely, against hers. _I know_ , he tells her with his half-closed eyes.

“Juggie,” she murmurs. She feels like she’s begging him for something, but she doesn’t know what.

He does, though. It’s one of those moments, interspersed throughout their lives, occurring with greater frequency as more and more years have stretched by, where he knows her better than she knows herself. And when he kisses her, it’s like he’s breathing oxygen into lungs that haven’t managed a deep breath all day. She kisses him back fiercely, leaning her whole body into his.

He walks backward slowly, taking her with him, their mouths moving together, until his legs hit his mattress and he drops down onto his unmade bed. He goes to pull her into his lap, but she takes a small step back first and rids herself of her leggings and her designed-for-running socks and her wrinkled t-shirt. She climbs onto his lap and relishes the catch in his breath as he runs his hands greedily over her back.

“ _So_ fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his mouth on her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. She squeezes her eyes shut for a beat and then grabs at the hem of his shirt and yanks it over his head. She rakes her nails over his chest and he dips his head lower still, taking a nipple into his mouth; her head falls back as she rolls her hips into his, seeking friction.

With the ease of someone who lifts her on a daily basis, Jughead gathers her close, picks her up off his lap, and lays her down on the bed next to him. He stands, sheds his boxers quickly, and then leans over her, letting her take on just a bit of his weight as he kisses her slow and long before he moves downward, dropping a single kiss on her abdomen before his lips begin trailing along the inside of one of her thighs.

Betty sighs, practically trembling with anticipation, and cards her fingers through his hair. Her hand forms a fist around dark strands when he finally puts his mouth on her, tongue circling her clit. She whimpers softly and feels him groan against her. He’s so good with his mouth, and he’s giving her exactly what she needs, but it’s not quite what she wants, and she finds herself tugging at his hair.

“Jug,” she says, her voice pitched like a whine. “Jug, please, I want - I want you inside me, I need to - ”

He makes his way back up her body slowly and meets her eyes. His lips are wet with her and the sight has her curling a leg around his hips.

He touches her thigh, pushes her leg away very gently, and his forehead drops onto hers. “Let me take my time with you,” he says thickly.

She looks into the eyes she knows better than those that greet her in the mirror every morning for a long, long time. Jughead is patient; he doesn’t say anything more. When, at last, she nods, her head feels heavy.

With a mouth as soft as a whispered secret, he kisses the tears off her cheeks.

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The training week is strange, not only because she and Jughead drop each other’s hands like they’re burning one another at the end of every step sequence run-through, or because his grip on her legs in their straight line is so tentative now that she huffs at him when she feels too unstable to get the kind of extension she’s supposed to be aiming for, or because he just skates away from her before the entry to their curve lift once and eventually returns to where she’s standing in exasperation pale-faced and without an explanation, but because Canadian nationals are on the upcoming weekend, so the bulk of Sophie and Luc’s attention is being given to the teams gearing up for their shot at Olympic qualification. Betty and Jughead are working with one of the junior coaches, Claire, who seems fully prepared to drill them on footwork but absolutely unprepared to deal with their personal drama - not that Betty can blame her. Claire sends them home early on Tuesday, telling them to rest, powers through for a full five hours on Wednesday, but apparently can’t quite manage the same on Thursday, because she suggests they do some off-ice work in the gym.

“Meet you in twenty?” Jughead asks as they head for the change rooms, a solid two feet of space between them. He squirts water into his mouth from a bottle emblazoned with a Gatorade logo.

“Do you think you could wait for Francois and go with him?” Betty asks. “I think I’m going to go home.” When Jughead stares at her like she’s just started speaking Klingon or something, she adds, defensively, “I have a headache.”

“Worlds are in nine weeks,” he says. She knows he’s not trying to condescend to her, but that’s what it feels like, like he thinks she’s too stupid to look at a calendar. “We have to keep our training up.”

“I know that, Jughead,” she says in the most even, least annoyed tone she can manage. “But I have a _headache._ ”

He keeps looking at her like he doesn’t understand her, which feels weirdly eerie; normally Jughead looks at her like he’s in tune with nearly every thought running through her mind. She holds her breath for a few seconds, certain he’s going to push her on it, but then his shoulders slump slightly and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fine. I’ll wait for Francois.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” she tells him, and pushes open the door to the women’s change room before he can reply.

She takes off her skates, rolls out her yoga mat, and stretches out the muscles she used during practice. She rolls the mat back up and sits down on the bench, intending to put on her boots, but she can’t find it in herself to reach for them and put them on her feet. Instead, she just ends up staring at the opposite wall, feeling numb and cold and fundamentally exhausted in a way not even the toughest training day has ever made her feel before.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there before the door opens and Sophie steps in. Her coach’s eyebrows arch in surprise.

“Betty,” she says. “I thought Claire said she sent you and Jughead off to the gym an hour ago.”

“She did,” Betty says. “I was just...heading home.” She looks down at the ground, scrunching up her toes in her socks, and adds, lamely, “I have a headache.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sophie says in her usual soft, steady voice. “Would you like some Tylenol?”

Betty shakes her head. “No thank you,” she tells her feet.

Sophie’s still for a moment, and then she crosses the room and takes a seat next to Betty on the bench. “Is this about Nationals?” she asks gently.

“No.” Betty looks up at her coach, eyes earnest; she was devastated by their fall, and about missing the Olympics, but she’s not a sore loser. “No, I promise.”

Sophie tilts her head. “Is this about your partner?” she asks, and Betty’s gaze flits immediately back to her feet.

The silence lingers, and then Sophie says, simple and kind, “If there’s something you need to say, I’m here to listen.”

Betty takes a few slow, deep breaths. “It feels,” she finally says quietly, “like I have to lose him if I want to keep us. Our team. Cooper and Jones. And it feels - it feels _so_ unfair because it’s - it’s choosing between what we’ve worked for forever and something so good that we’ve just _found_ and I know skating’s the right choice and I don’t want to have regrets but right now it doesn’t _feel_ right, it just - it just hurts so much.”

With a sympathetic hum, Sophie leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and turning her head so that she can look into Betty’s face. “Betty, you’re still so young,” she says. “Both of you are. And you made a very mature decision, and you should allow yourself to be proud of that - you two are so talented, and you have so much more to give this sport.” She pauses. “But I also know what it feels like to have a glimpse, just a glimpse, of a fairytale, and nothing more. Like something’s crumbling to dust in your chest.”

Betty’s eyes flick over to Sophie’s. She wonders, for an instant, through the haze of her own heartbreak, if there are parts of her coaches’ mutual past that she’s entirely unaware of.

“I can say with confidence that the two of you have success ahead of you in ice dance,” Sophie says, reaching over to squeeze Betty’s knee. “I can’t say what your future holds, in terms of your personal relationship. Maybe in four years, or eight, you’ll remember that glimpse you had, and you’ll fight to get it back. Maybe it will be right there waiting for you both. Maybe you’ll both grow and change, and things will be different than they are now. But whatever happens, I can tell you that you’re not going to lose Jughead from your life. No matter the shape, you’ll always have a relationship. It’s inevitable, and it’s - ” A small, cryptic smile flashes across her face. “It’s silly to fight it. You’ve been a team for so long, in more ways than one. You’re trees that were planted together; your roots have intertwined. He’s - Jughead is your person. Just as you’re his. You’ll always have that, Betty.”

Betty’s chin quavers. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she nods.

“And on the ice - on the ice he’s everything, and you’re everything to him. Treasure that, if you have to. Nurture it. Keep the love you have for each other; just let it be fluid. Don’t demand that it fit under a word or a label. And… ” Sophie shrugs one shoulder, her smile empathetic and encouraging. “Come what may.”

Nodding again, Betty manages to whisper, “Okay.” Sophie nods in return and then gives her a hug, rubbing her back soothingly until the tension in Betty’s body finally begins to abate.

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Betty begs off Friday practice, citing her ‘persistent headache,’ but shows up on Saturday. She and Jughead don’t speak on the drive in, the radio filling the tense silence. They don’t talk at all until they’re in the middle of running their free, on the verge of that damn curve lift, and she breathes, “We can do this,” to him just before the entry. It goes off without a hitch, and when he helps her up off the ice after they’re struck their final pose, he keeps hold of her hands for half a second longer than necessary. After lunch, the silence that surrounds them as they run laps on their gym’s track feels a bit more companionable.

On Sunday, their off day, she takes a very long bath, watches three hours of Netflix, and allows herself a single brownie. She takes melatonin before bed and wakes two minutes before her alarm. When she pulls into Jughead’s driveway, she waves at him from the car, and he says, “Hi,” as he takes a seat on the passenger side. She puts on a playlist Archie sent to her, full of his own original attempts at surprisingly depressing songwriting, and catches Jughead trying to quell his amused smile in her peripheral vision.

At the rink, when they part ways to head for the change rooms, Betty can hear The Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” playing, which puzzles her - it’s a really strange time in the season for any of the teams to be working on a new exhibition piece, but perhaps Sophie and Luc are doing guest choreo for a team outside of the school. She gives her head a little shake to rid herself of her confusion; it’s not important. She needs to focus. That’s what it’s all about, now, for the next four years: focusing, and, when she can, finding little pieces of what she’s lost with Jughead in their non-skating lives in what they do on the ice and tucking them away deep in her heart.

She laces her skates, zips on a sweater to keep her muscles warm during the beginning of practice, and slicks her hair up into a ponytail so tight that it stings her scalp. She does a few basic stretches, lifting her arms and touching her toes and trying to loosen up her hips - she's  _not_ procrastinating; she’s preparing her body for a gruelling day of training, she’s being a responsible athlete - and takes a hearty drink from her water bottle before she finally exits the change room.

What she encounters on the ice when she reaches the boards makes her freeze on the spot, her brain not quite able to process what she’s seeing. The song has just changed - _can’t explain all the feelings that you’re making me feel_ \- and nearly every team is out on the ice, skating around with absolutely no order or organization, their movements silly and show-offy, not an ounce of technique involved.

Flora glides by, smiling. “Betty!” she says brightly. “Come on out!”

Betty stares at her. Automatically, her eyes seek out Jughead, and she’s thoroughly surprised to see him out on the ice, twirling Gracie, a member of one of the junior teams, under his arm as she laughs. Betty blinks, looks for one of her coaches instead, and finds Luc.

“What…” she breathes.

“Post-nationals stress relief!” he yells at her. “Get on the ice, Cooper.”

She takes her guards off, sets them on the boards, and steps onto the ice carefully, like she’s six years old again and just learning to skate. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, but Luc doesn’t give her any time to think about it, skating over quickly and grabbing her with both gentleness and expertise under her arms, lifting her and whirling her around in a loop lift, surprising a little shriek out of her.

“Have some fun,” he says when she’s back on her skates, his tone almost imploring. She doesn’t have a chance to reply before she discovers that he’s skated her over to Jughead and right into her partner’s arms.

“Hi,” she says softly to him. Her muscle memory guides one of her hands to his shoulder, her other hand hovering in the air, waiting to rest within his.

“Hey,” he replies, sliding his hand beneath hers. His other hand takes an extra moment to find its way to her waist. She watches him swallow hard, and then he asks, “Wanna dance?”

Her lips twitch into a tiny smile, and she tells him, on an exhale, “Always.”

They begin to move. He guides her through steps, through edges and curves, and when he says, “Last year’s short dance?” she knows precisely what he means, and they break apart at the exact same moment to launch into last year’s twizzles, finding each other’s hands again the moment they’re done. It’s good the way it always used to be; they’re on the exact same wavelength, moving and breathing in perfect unison, and it makes her feel less like she’s drowning, makes it easier to smile.

_I believe in a thing called love; just listen to the rhythm of my heart. There’s a chance we can make it now. We’ll be rockin’ til the sun goes down._

Jughead twirls her, big and performative, on the last notes of the final guitar solo, circling her body as she spins. He collects her back into his arms and dips her on the very last beat.

From where she’s laid back in his hold, Betty looks up at his face. He’s smiling, looking back at her, and in him she can see the eight year old boy she first held hands with, the boy whose life has always moved and changed and evolved in tandem with hers. He’s her person, and he’s her partner, and they are good fucking ice dancers.

He helps her straighten up again, and she swallows down her heartache as their arms drift away from each other. He might not be her boyfriend anymore, but they were something before that, and they’re something still. They’re a million things, if she’s being honest with herself, and she has to focus ( _focus, the next four years are about focus_ ) on the label they’re trying their hardest to salvage: _future Olympians._

“Jughead,” she says.

 _I love you_ , she thinks.

“Let’s win Worlds,” she declares.

 

 

 

 

tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so that...got out of hand. as previously noted, we would love to hear any feedback you have!! :)


	5. twenty-two (part i)

_you’re going to reap just what you sow_

 

Love is a strange thing. Jughead’s seen the movies: a meet-cute, a few dates, a passionate night, some arguments, then an understanding and probably wedded bliss. Love is the morning after, he’s been told, the sleepy Sunday morning in soft sheets with hot coffee and cool air. And it is, _probably._ But it’s more too, he thinks: it’s cooking dinner and playful banter on a stroll or stopping for an extra latte along the way. It’s the comfortable silence on the couch after a long day. It’s _contentment_ that forms the indescribable bond that sets an umbrella over your head to weather you through a storm. Sometimes, it _is_ the storm, too, but it’s always, always, always there waiting, after, when the rainbow fades.

There’s no manual. Nothing shows you how to approach the beginnings - they take care of themselves, usually. Nothing demonstrates how to maneuver through the middle, how to grab and hold and _sustain_ it, how not only to keep the boat afloat but also how to manage the sails when the wind inevitably changes course.

Further still, there’s nothing that covers what to do when it’s done, or how you’re supposed to keep your head above the waves when someone says it’s over but somehow, impossibly, it’ll never end.

So he muddles his way through, step by step, pushing stubborn feet through heavy sand. It’s tough but he’s grateful for _this way,_ because at least when he looks over she’s there too, tugging a life preserver behind her, just in case.

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Jughead tugs his beanie lower on his head as he walks into the foyer of his condo building. He slips his thumb into the strap of the backpack that he uses as a gym bag and lets his tired arm rest briefly before he steps into the elevator. He’s on the way back from a hard weight-training workout with one of their trainers, Nick, and has one thing on his mind: sleep. Then food, of course, and then more sleep.

He leans against the inside of the elevator, dreaming of the hot shower and soft bedding that are in his imminent future, and only opens his eyes when a dull _ding_ signals that he’s at his floor. He shuffles out, keys at the ready, but the door is unlocked when he arrives at it and he pushes it open with a rueful smile. He steps in, kicks his shoes off, and drops his backpack on the floor.

He clears his throat. “Betty, this better be you that’s home, because Nick kicked my ass today and I do _not_ have the energy to defend our homestead from an intruder.”

The sound of a soft laugh from the kitchen tells him that he’s right, and a moment later Betty appears in front of him, confirming it. “Hi,” she greets. “So Nick was rough on you?”

“Bulking up in a really specific way is a tremendously awful process, Betts.” Jughead follows her into the kitchen and grabs a protein bar from a box that rests on the counter. “How was your appointment?”

Betty shrugs. “It wasn’t _pleasant,_ but I think my knee is on the rebound. Lots of progress.”

“That’s awesome.” He reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. “Sorry I couldn’t be there,” he adds, meaning it. She’d been mildly injured during a jog a few weeks prior - she’d collided with a girl who was a little _too_ engrossed in her podcast (true crime, apparently, which he thinks is a goddamn _epidemic)_ and had fallen directly onto her knee.

Betty had luckily managed to avoid tearing anything major, though the bruising was pretty bad. She hadn’t said anything about the pain - she was tough, always, though Jughead could see through her - and it was only after one too many poorly-hidden winces that Sophie and Luc had sent her to see a physical therapist. Jughead went with her for the first session, believing strongly that partners should support one another especially when one is injured, but today his strength training workout had been scheduled for the same time as her physical therapy appointment. Betty had insisted that she didn’t feel abandoned at all by him and that she’d be fine - which of course she would be, she’s _Betty Cooper_ and she can do anything, he knows - but he still feels bad about it.

“Mhm, it’s okay,” Betty hums, a bit absentmindedly, patting his arm. “I’m definitely glad it’s over, though. Now I’m thinking I’m going to go to the farmer’s market to get some zucchini and tomatoes for dinner. I wanna make a homemade marinara sauce, is that okay?”

“That sounds delicious,” Jughead says, chomping on his protein bar. Ever since they’d moved out of their host families’ homes and into this shared condo near Old Montreal, Betty had really taken up cooking as a hobby. He loves eating and thus wholeheartedly supports her endeavours in the kitchen - plus, she’s actually incredible. He thinks maybe if skating doesn’t pan out for them long-term, he can maybe get a busboy job in whatever fancy restaurant she’ll undoubtedly open up. Everyone, after all, needs a fall-back plan.

“You’re so agreeable when it comes to food.”

“I do my best.” Then, despite his prior plans for sleep, Jughead asks, “Want some company?”

Betty raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not heading straight for a nap?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll sleep better at night if I stop doing it so much during the day.”

“Yeah, that’ll probably help,” Betty says wryly. She takes the empty protein bar wrapper from his hand, where he’s been crinkling it out of residual adrenaline-induced nerves, and throws it out. “Well, if you want to come, sure! Ooh, maybe there’ll be some natural peanut butter. They had some last time but I didn’t pick any up, and I’ve been really regretting that ever since.”

Jughead pretends to gag - he prefers his peanut butter heavily processed, like a normal person - and flashes a grin at her disapproving face. “I’ll be quick in the shower,” he promises, “then we can go.”

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Betty is wearing a floral sundress. It’s technically white, Jughead supposes, but there are tiny red flowers all over it. It’s not her usual attire - she’s a fan of skirts in mostly pastel colours, but for casual daywear he’s typically noticed her in jeans, shorts, and t-shirts - and she looks pretty and springy and _fresh_ , as if this is a movie and today is the beginning of something new.

As they cross the street, the hem of her dress flutters in the mid-May breeze, and the flowers get a chance to intermingle.

“Jug?”

He tears his eyes away from the dance of the roses. Betty is looking at him expectantly. “Hmm?” he asks, clearly having missed something.

She raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I asked if you liked the soup we had on Friday. I was thinking of making more to freeze for when we get busier.”

“Oh.” Jughead strains his memory - it was tomato-based, he remembers, but not overly creamy - and finally just nods. “I like everything you make, Betts,” he replies honestly.

Betty looks a little suspicious for a moment, but a beat later she seems to accept his words, and leads him into Atwater Market. “One day I’ll find the secret to your metabolism, and I’ll be _so_ rich - _ooh,_ Juggie, look!” she exclaims, clutching his arm. “Fresh basil!”

He chuckles and pats her shoulder. “One day _I’ll_ be as excited about anything as you are about greenhouse herbs,” he replies good-naturedly, letting her drag him over to a table filled with small, leafy greens. He watches as Betty chats with the vendor, fumbling over some French phrases with a pink-cheeked sincerity before the man just switches seamlessly to English. He squeezes her elbow, knowing she won’t like not having been quite able to keep up, then lets his mind drift again.

It’s been weird, these last few years. Professionally, they’ve had their most productive three years ever: they’ve won Nationals every year, Worlds twice, and barring some kind of egregious error in this year’s upcoming program, they are a _lock_ to make it to the Olympics, where they could actually win, too. They’ve both graduated high school, both started long-term and casual university correspondence classes, and they live in a great condo in a great city with great training partners and the same great coaches. He is, as his sister Jellybean tells him, _living his best life._

But he’s not, Jughead knows. He never will be, not again.

He knows what _best_ feels like. He knows what championship and winning and the payoff to hard work feels like, and while all of these accomplishments that they’ve shared recently are great, they’re not the _best._ That got left behind more than three years ago, in a small closet at an arena, stuck with the proverbial pin, _if, maybe, until._ Without the warmth of her in his bed and the press of her mouth to his skin, without a love-soaked twinkle in her eye when she looks at him, without unrestricted, no-holds-barred affectionate air between and around them, without _that,_ he won’t ever have ‘best’ again.

Afterward, they’d had to restart, had to find a way to re-level themselves. There were new boundaries, obviously: no more kissing, no more sex, no more of any of that. Their relationship, the romantic side, was done. The touching and the tension and the looks were for the ice only, and off of it, they were platonic. Jughead had had to work hard - they both did - to manage his expectations and feelings, to be able to appropriately focus on skating.

It was hard, especially at first. Jughead felt sort of isolated, in a way, even though Betty was still there doing school with him and still there beside him at the rink and in the gym. They were still partners, still friends, but he was kind of alone too, and this time it was loneliness of a sort he’s never had before. He’d been sort of _used_ to solitude, tempered over the years by his mother’s abandonment and his father’s absence. But in those days, he’d had friends like Archie - and he’d had Betty. He still _has_ Betty, kind of; she’s not gone from his life, and they’re still best friends, but it’s difficult to lean on a friend about having to break up with the girl that you love when that girl and your friend are one in the same.

So instead, there was the gym, and there was the rink, and at times there was Luc, too. Jughead had wished then - still wishes, even now - that they could go back to the way that things _were,_ back to loving and kissing and teasing and flirting and all of the beautiful parts of that type of togetherness, only without the horribly detrimental effect it had inexplicably had on their skating.

 _Time heals all wounds,_ he’d read afterward, and over three years later Jughead can say affirmatively that that’s just a pile of shit. Time has made them less awkward around each other, sure, but it hasn’t healed anything. He still misses Betty, still thinks about her in ways he shouldn’t despite his desperate attempts not to, still misses the weeks of bliss and the sweep of her eyelashes against his shoulder blade. Maybe he really is a tragic figure, he sometimes thinks, the way that his angsty teenage self had fancied himself being. Perhaps he should, after all, move to Paris or Vienna and write a horribly depressing novel about his isolation.

Maybe he really is better at the _longing_ part of love.

But even then, with all of that floating in his head, Jughead still treasures the memories. He can think back on the way that Betty would smile at him when they touched hands on the ice during those first perfect weeks, when they could still have it all. He can remember how much lighter he’d felt, all of a sudden and somehow kind of ever after, too. He can know, always, how happy she made him, and how happy he thinks he made her.

He could do it again, he sometimes thinks. He could put that truest smile on her face again, and it would be worth everything.

After all, _she’s_ always been worth everything.

But he lives in the real world now - _they_ do - and he knows it’s just a pipe dream, something to be locked away and hidden. It’s definitely _not_ something to remember right now, while walking around with her at a farmer’s market, trying to pick out tomatoes.

Betty flits from booth to booth, filling her once neatly-folded cloth bag with various vegetables and greens until finally, she seems to have acquired everything on her mental shopping list. She has a contented look on her face that Jughead hasn't seen in a few weeks, ever since she got injured; he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to make sure that that smile stays, and on a whim he grabs a bunch of tulips from the floral vendor at the end of the line of booths.

Jughead presses a purple ten-dollar bill into the hand of the florist, then turns and presents Betty with the small bouquet. _“Pour vous,”_ he says, bowing his head playfully. “Or, _pour_ the table by the window, anyway.”

“That's a nice idea,” Betty replies with a smile, accepting the tulips. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs. “I know having fresh flowers around the apartment makes you happy -”

“Aww.”

“- and when you're happy, you cook more, and I'm hungry.” He grins at her.

Betty rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her face as she walks up to the crosswalk. “Maybe you're not the best test market for my cooking. You like everything.”

“That's not true. I don't like broccoli.”

“You'd like it if it was slathered in my homemade cheese sauce.”

The light turns green and Jughead strides across the crosswalk with the affirmative walk signal, Betty at his heels. “That's not fair. _Everything_ is good slathered in cheese sauce.”

Betty laughs. “Wanna test that theory?” she teases, adjusting the grocery bag on her arm. “I can go pick up some more food for dipping.”

Jughead reaches over and takes the bag from her. “Like a fondue test? That sounds like a dream come true.”

They get back to their condo a few minutes later, having _not_ stopped to get dip accoutrements for the hypothetical cheese-sauce extravaganza (he’s only kind of sad). Jughead unloads Betty’s purchases onto the countertop while she puts the tulips in water. When he’s done, he steps back and surveys their haul; _not bad,_ he thinks, even if the assortment of groceries does look a bit too healthy for his liking.

“We should’ve picked up poutine,” he remarks.

Betty makes a soft _cluck_ noise with her tongue that reminds him just slightly of her mother - which he’ll _never_ tell her, not ever, ever, ever - and she hip-checks him out of the way. “Get out,” she orders, “or you don’t get to eat any.”

While the prospect of that isn’t quite terrifying enough to make him leave, the sudden and overwhelming urge he has to respond in a markedly flirtatious way _is_. They redrew a line, and he has to toe it. That’s how this works, he reminds himself. _You picked this, too._

So he backs off and settles for wandering into the living room, where he flops onto the couch and plays on his cell phone. He texts Archie - there’s no immediate response, which he’d anticipated, given that Archie is currently off ‘living his best life’ (to quote Jellybean) in California with Veronica. He even contemplates texting Jellybean herself, but he’s not usually the initiator of a pointless text conversation with his sister, and that’ll probably lead to more questions than answers. So instead he pulls up Tetris and works the blocks into different combinations over and over again until the goddamn cubes deliver a sharp _fuck you_ and pile too high. He restarts the game, this time trying to more rapidly make decisions about locations and shapes, but he loses once more when Betty’s legs suddenly appear on his lap.

“Sauce is simmering,” she explains when he looks over in surprise. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Tetris.” Jughead sets his phone on the coffee table and taps her foot with his index finger out of habit. “You got plans tonight?” he asks, glancing at her leg. They used to sit like this more - draped on each other, without a thought for whatever the hell _personal space_ was supposed to be - but after the breakup, it had abruptly stopped. It had had to for his own sanity, and maybe, he hopes, for hers too. He’s not sure what it might mean, how this closeness has been creeping back, other than probably at least that she’s nervous for the upcoming season, this being an Olympic one, and she needs him to be supportive.

He’s been toeing a line, but it disappears into sand at the smallest reminders: Pilates, straight-line lifts, workout shirts with funny slogans, whenever she laughs _just so_ , if she wears that one dusty blue skirt. Every time he hears the music from _Amélie_ and has to pretend like it’s just some program that they skated once and not the four minutes that ruined everything, Jughead thinks he dies a little inside.

He knows they both need that line to be strong and solid and firm. He hopes he can hold it this time.

Betty yawns - he’s not sure what time she got up today, but he imagines it has to be early, it’s _always_ early - and shakes her head. “Do I ever have plans with anyone besides you?”

“Flora, sometimes?” Jughead offers, but he gets her point. They’re together more than is probably healthy, especially considering that _she_ is, through no fault of her own, at the root of some of the main issues that have served as impediments to his moving on with his life.

He just - doesn’t _want_ to move on. As long as there are memories, he wants to cling to them.

Jughead gestures to their TV. “We could watch a movie while we eat dinner, if you want.”

Betty’s eyes are closed but she nods. “Mm, sounds good. Anything in particular you’re interested in?”

Jughead reaches for the remote and begins to browse through Netflix. He stops at _Trainspotting_ , remembering how years and years ago, during their last (and really only) significant rift, it had been a viewing of this movie at the Bijou that had brought them back together. Things are so different now - they’re adults, not hormonally-charged teenagers with communication issues; their current conflict isn’t really a conflict; and their distance now is not only intentionally self-imposed but also of a strange, carefully-constructed variety. Still, the movie brings back so many memories: how confused he was then, how unmanageable life seemed like it would be without Betty, his only constant - and then he thinks, _maybe things aren’t that different after all._

He clears his throat and answers, “Yeah, I have an idea.”

Betty glances up at the highlighted film, then turns to look at him. A conflicted expression crosses her face, but her eyes are soft and then wordlessly, she nods.

An hour later, with Betty’s homemade zucchini noodles and sauce warm in his stomach, Jughead sits and watches as an overdosing Mark Renton is dragged down an apartment staircase and hoisted into a taxicab while “Perfect Day” by Lou Reed swells. He recalls that Betty had been bothered years ago by the constant hitting of the character’s head on concrete, and looks over to her to make sure that she’s okay. To his surprise, she’s not wincing or looking away from the still-abrupt movements, but is instead soundlessly singing along with the music.

Betty notices him watching a second after he starts, and she stops, smiling a little. “Kind of a morbid juxtaposition,” she tells him. “But I like it. It reminds me of -- I dunno, it fits. Light and dark.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, it makes sense,” he agrees. “Opposites.”

As Jughead turns back to the TV, Betty suddenly says, “We should skate to it.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he watches Mark Renton arrive at the hospital, as _it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you_ nearly drowns out the sound of car doors slamming. It’s followed by the crescendo of the orchestra, and Jughead has a sharp mental image of himself and Betty on ice, reaching the climax of their skate with a powerful lift. It feels … golden.

“Yeah,” he says, again. “Okay.”

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He’s in a drugstore three weeks after the breakup when he hears it. He’s heard it before, of course, countless times; it’s one of the most played songs ever, the kind of prominent hit that gets regular radio play despite the fact that it peaked on the charts in 1987. It’s inescapable, but in an inoffensive way, like beige walls.

Normally, he probably wouldn’t have even registered it, but on this particular day the store is especially quiet and the music is overpowering. Or maybe he’s just hyper-sensitive, because less than a month ago he broke up with a girl who is not only undoubtedly the love of his life, but also one of the only people he even _likes,_ really. Maybe, maybe. It doesn’t matter _why;_ it just matters that today, when Jughead hears “With or Without You” by U2, it hits him like a truck.

_Through the storm we reach the shore, you give it all but I want more, and I'm waiting for you…_

He freezes. It’s _paralyzing,_ suddenly, and he realizes that this is what he’s doing now: waiting. He’s in a post-Betty haze, has been for weeks, wandering around and hoping and wishing and living for an alternate reality where none of this needed to happen, where they could be in love and skate their best at the same time, where careers weren’t at risk and where tradeoffs like _happiness or success?_ weren’t a thing.

And he realizes now, finally, that that reality isn’t coming. He can’t make it happen anymore than he can make his mom come back, or make his dad quit drinking, or fix the socioeconomic imbalances of his hometown. Here, in a drugstore, with Bono in his ear, he _gets it._

He goes home, buys U2’s _Greatest Hits,_ and listens to “With or Without You” whenever he needs to intentionally sink a little further into despair, which especially for the first six months post-breakup is fairly regularly. He plays it after choreography practice for their new short dance, because he has to act like he’s in love with her and he’s quickly overwhelmed by the mental gymnastics of pretending like the realest thing in his life is only for a fucking show. He plays it when his dad flakes out on a visit for the millionth time and he second guesses whether or not it’s still okay for him to call Betty. He plays it when she hugs him a beat too long, plays it every time the feeling of her skin gives him beautiful nightmares, and puts it on repeat after the day that she comes to pick him up for practice and her eyes don’t look sad anymore.

One day about seven and a half months after they break up, he gets to the rink and he doesn’t have to stop himself from leaning in to kiss Betty when he sees her. It’s not his first instinct anymore. He realizes that terrible, wonderful, awful fact half a minute after she’s waved hello, but the damage is already done. He’s already broken his own heart, months after he’d thought it could never get worse.

He doesn’t play the song anymore after that, but it never stops being true.

_I can’t live with or without you._

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The compulsory style for this season’s short dance is the waltz, and by August, they’re in a studio in Beaconsfield learning the choreography from a professional dancer named Raquel who Luc and Sophie have contracted to help. They need a strong program if they’re going to maintain their number-one ranking, and for that they’ll need the technical elements of their short to be perfect. Jughead understands all of that; it’s the same conversation they have every year, as they pick music and start learning steps and talking about story, but this is an Olympic year and even though the process is the same, everything feels so, so different.

They’ve waltzed before, but it’s been primarily in exhibition programs and thus they’ve never quite had the full weight of their coaches’ attention on the minute movements in a swing or the exact parallel line of their feet as they move around the room. They’ve been at it for three hours already, and Jughead’s arm is beginning to tire from being thrust outward with Betty’s for so long, but Raquel doesn’t seem to be letting up.

“Betty, you must move your leg more quickly,” Raquel insists, watching intently from the side of the room. “Your left leg is a bit slow and it’s a distraction.”

Betty nods, swallows, and furrows her brow in concentration. On the next step, their legs are perfectly in tandem. Jughead leads her around the line, swaying after the contra movement, and they finish again in the centre of the room with her half-draped over his arm.

“That was awesome, Betts,” Jughead tells her quietly as he rises with her still in his arms. He squeezes her waist encouragingly then lets her go, watching her face carefully. She’s usually perfect, despite how much she hates being told that; it’s typically him that screws up, him that misses a step or twists the wrong way. Today, however, she’s seemed a little off - apparently, her mother had called late at night and kept her up on the phone rehashing some kind of argument she’d had with Betty’s father - and as a result the bulk of Raquel’s adjustments have been directed toward Betty.

It’s okay, he wants to tell her. It’s _August._ They have lots of time.

“Was that better?” Betty asks breathlessly.

Raquel nods. “Yes, but we’ve still got some work to do on that transition section before the lift. Let’s take a short break, then start back up again in five. Sound good?” She clasps her hands together, then, without waiting for an answer, turns and strides out of the room.

Jughead rolls his eyes a little at her retreating back, then turns to Betty. “You okay, Betts?” he asks. “We can beg off a little early if you want. I’ll take the hit from Raquel,” he promises, smiling. “I know you’re tired.”

Betty shakes her head at him and begins to slowly walk to the side of the studio. She takes a swig from her water bottle, then reaches down to her ankles, stretching. “I’m okay.”

Jughead frowns a little and keeps watching her. She has a braid today instead of a ponytail - it’s kind of unusual for her, but it’s given him something to look at during practice other than the tone and curves of her body. She’d started practice in a thin sweater, but as Raquel refused to let up, that had quickly been tossed aside in favour of a strappy workout top she wore underneath. It is (just a little bit) terrible.

“Betty,” he begins, placing a hand on her lower back.

“I’m okay,” she repeats, standing up. He catches her eye, squinting just slightly as he tries to read her mind. She bites her lip, then touches his bicep delicately and opens her mouth as if to continue speaking, but no words come out. Her thumb strokes his skin for a few moments before she pulls her hand away and ducks her head, apparently choosing not to pick up on whatever thread he’d left.

“Okay,” Jughead says uncertainly. He drops the subject, but when Raquel come back into the room he tells her that he has a dentist appointment and if they could end a little early, he’d be most appreciative; Raquel looks irritated at the last-minute request, but ultimately agrees.

“From the top!” she announces. “Don’t forget to pick up your feet!”

“I wish I could pick up my feet into her face,” Jughead murmurs in Betty’s ear while they take their starting position, quietly enough that only she can hear. It earns him a giggle and a chastising _tut-tut,_ but he’ll take that.

They dance for another hour and a half, the last eight minutes of which are a mercifully relaxing _savasana,_ then Betty throws her thin sweater on over her top, Jughead grabs their bags, and they leave.

They step out onto the sidewalk and are immediately hit with a surprisingly cold wave of post-rain air. Betty pulls her sweater more tightly around her and Jughead regrets not bringing a flannel shirt just in case.

“I didn’t even fucking _know_ it was raining,” Jughead remarks. “I swear the world could end and Raquel wouldn’t tell us.” He points to a quaint coffee shop across the street; they’ve stopped there numerous times since beginning to work out of Raquel’s studio. “Do you wanna grab a coffee for the way home?”

Betty nods gratefully at him. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

As they walk across the street, Jughead mentally prepares himself for the onslaught of man-bun-sporting hipsters that he’s sure they’ll come across. He’s fully aware of the hypocrisy - _he_ wears a beanie in summer, and he owns a lot of plaid too - but there’s something about this coffee shop that brings out the _really_ committed ones, the kind of people who ride bicycles that are built with antique pipes and have burlap socks and order everything with almond milk despite the horrendous impact that growing almonds has on the drought in California.

He spots one as soon as they step into the coffee shop: a man, leaning against the exposed brick wall, staring at a shadeless Edison bulb with his honey-coloured hair twisted into a bun that might actually be more elegant than Betty’s on a bad day. He’s hovering slightly near the pick-up spot for coffee orders, so Jughead assumes he’s on his way out - _thank god,_ he thinks, even if he and Betty are leaving right away.

“Order me a black coffee?” Jughead asks Betty, touching the small of her back. “I’m just going to use the bathroom quick. Didn’t wanna hover around Raquel’s.”

“Will do,” Betty says with an affirmative smile. She walks to the end of the short line and begins to wait patiently as Jughead disappears around the corner to the washrooms.

After, once he’s used the facilities and is at the sink washing his hands, Jughead takes a moment to look in the mirror. His hair is getting a little long - unruly, almost. He wonders if it’s time for him to get a haircut, else he end up like Man-Bun. He resolves to ask Betty her opinion and finishes up at the sink, dries his hands quickly on paper towel, then steps back into the cafe.

He doesn’t see Betty immediately near the counter, so he scans the coffee shop for her blonde hair. It takes him a second to spot her, mostly because of her uncharacteristic braid, but he finally does: she’s over near the wall close to the coffee pick-up area, her back turned, writing something on a napkin from the creamer and sugar station. Jughead immediately assumes that somebody’s recognized her and asked for an autograph - it doesn’t happen constantly, but it’s not a totally out-of-the-blue event - so he walks up behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey Betts, I -” He falters when he looks just past Betty’s head and realizes that she’s not just giving an autograph to anyone, but to _Man-Bun._

“Jug,” Betty says, her voice sounding slightly pinched, as if he’d caught her off guard. “I ordered you a coffee,” she adds, her eyes darting away.

“Thanks.” Jughead fights the urge to raise his eyebrows at her - she’s acting a bit strange - and instead decides to ignore it in favour of turning to grab his waiting coffee from the platform. He picks up her decaf americano too, puts lids on them, then turns back to Betty just as Man-Bun says, “I’ll call you.”

_“I’ll call you.”_

His stomach suddenly feels like the bottom has unexpectedly dropped out, and it’s not until Betty tugs gently on her coffee cup that he realizes she’s watching him. Man-Bun is gone now, having floated out of the cafe on walnut-scented air or some other kind of bullshit, and he’s left an uncomfortable tension in his wake.

“He asked for my number,” Betty blurts. “I didn’t just - he asked for it.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not sure what it would be, not right now. She’s free to do whatever she wants, see anyone she wants. She hasn’t, not since they broke up, but - it’s been more than three years. This had to happen eventually, he knows, even though he’d been hoping it wouldn’t. It’s not his place to be an asshole about it now, regardless of the fact that he feels a little bit like he was just punched in the chest.

“I probably won’t go out with him anyway,” she continues on, her words still coming out rushed. “I don’t have time. Not with training, and … this year is important.”

“It’s fine, Betty,” he finally says, holding the door open for her. “You deserve a social life.”

Betty stops midway through exiting the cafe and looks at him intently, her eyes searching his. He knows what she’s doing - he does it to her, after all, but today she’s not going to get anything from him. She looks a little like she’s going to apologize, like something’s bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting to be said, but she seems to change her mind because a beat later she’s chewing her lip and then walking through the doorway.

 _It’s fine,_ he thinks. It’s been years. _You’ll be fine._

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Things are a little awkward for the rest of the day. They’re speaking to each other - he’s not petty like _that,_ but he is probably a bit quieter than usual. He wants to be supportive, he reasons, and the only way that he can do that right now is by not saying much. So he spends the rest of the day reading, then at seven PM he goes for a run while Betty goes downstairs to the building gym to put some time in on the stationary bike.

Running has always felt pointless to Jughead. The runner’s high is not a real thing, he’s decided, no matter what anyone who’s crazy enough to run marathons for fun tells him. However, it is an excellent stress reliever, and the trails in the park near their apartment are easier on his knees, too. It’s good if he just needs to get some energy out, good if he’s been asked to get a little extra cardio in by his trainer, and as it turns out, perfect for when his ex-girlfriend (who’s also his skating partner, roommate, and best friend) gives her phone number to some random hipster in a shitty cafe in Beaconsfield.

Jughead’s in the shower when Betty gets back from the gym. “I’ll hurry up!” he hollers. He isn’t sure if she’s heard him, but he rushes through anyway and wraps a towel quickly around his waist before stepping out of the bathroom. He can’t see her right away, so he calls, “Betty?”

There’s still no answer, so Jughead decides to go get dressed. He takes two steps down the hallway and then nearly collides with her as she comes out of her bedroom, still in her workout clothes. “Ohmigod, sorry,” she says, “I didn’t hear … um … didn’t hear you calling.” Her words nearly pause, trailing slowly after one another. Jughead frowns in concern, peering at her, then realizes a moment later that she’s staring at his chest.

He’s never felt more like a douchebag gym-bro in his life, but Jughead flexes his muscles just slightly at the realization, biting back a smirk. Even if she’s over him emotionally, he thinks, at least - at least she’s still attracted to him, in whatever small way. At least there’s still _something,_ even if it’s not the part he cares about, even if it’s just about some base hormonal urge and not the deep-seated intimacy that he misses so terribly much.

He’s a man drowning in the desert. But that’s not her fault either, he realizes, and he relaxes his face just before Betty’s eyes reach it.

“Shower’s free,” Jughead tells her softly.

She swallows visibly, her graceful neck moving as delicately as her feet do. “Thanks,” she says in a near-whisper, then steps past him and into the washroom.

He’d made a promise back then, when they’d been standing in that closet in the arena after their loss. _“I’ll love you like I used to,”_ he’d said. Like _before,_ when they were kids, when she was just his best friend. He’s spent the last three and a half years trying to keep it, trying to get back to that space, trying not necessarily to forget but to move backward, and now he thinks he knows why it’s never really worked: because even then, even when they were eight and she kissed him before calling Reggie Mantle “a butt” in the hallway, even when they were eleven at the rink awkwardly holding hands, even when she fell asleep on him at Archie’s thirteenth birthday party - even _then,_ he’d loved her, and there’d only ever been one way.

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The next day, they’re in a downtown photography studio, and Jughead is getting makeup put on his face for a photoshoot. He’s done it before - they’re old hat at photoshoots by this point in their careers - but it still never ceases to be itchy, to be uncomfortable, and he never stops wanting to rub his eyes even when the makeup artists have yelled at him not to.

Today, though, the shoot is for their own athletic-wear line - _athleisure,_ someone had corrected him brusquely - so he’s marginally more okay with toeing the line. They’re working with Reebok on a collaboration that’s technically called _Reebok x COOPERJONES_ ; it’s an endorsement they’d gotten after winning Worlds the second time, and while Jughead doesn’t see himself as the modelling type, it’s essentially all stuff he wears to practice anyway - shorts, athletic pants, t-shirts, tank-tops - so he figures he can’t look too unnatural.

As it turns out, he does - _they_ do - but it has nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with the awkward discomfort that’s been between them all morning. He’s almost annoyed with it by this point; it’s irritating to know that even after all the work that they’ve put in to re-base, to get themselves to a strong working relationship and a shared focus and vision for their skating career, the smallest thing can knock them off-course again. It almost shocks him, in a way, that for all their efforts things can still sometimes be so strained, all over the unspoken It, the _thing_ that they don’t talk about.

They’re awkward for the first bit of the shoot, the way they used to be in the months immediately following their breakup, when they weren’t sure how to interact. Can he still hold her hand on the ice, can her leg still wrap around his waist just so, can their eyes still meet to communicate - it’s exhausting, Jughead thinks, to have to relive this.

And then, after an exceedingly strained pose with Betty standing on his knees, propped up by outstretched arms to her back, Jughead decides that he _won’t._ It’s fucking ridiculous, he thinks. It’s his _job_ to touch her. And _fuck,_ does he know how to touch her - not just like _that,_ but on the ice. They’re magic with skates and some cold frozen water, and they know it. So with the next pose, when she’s standing beside him with a jaunty elbow on his shoulder and a fake smile on her face, he reaches over and puts his hand on her waist. He curls his fingers in firmly, holding tight like she’ll fall if he doesn’t, like they’re in the middle of a lift and this grip is the only thing in the world that matters, and it happens, _something_ happens, to other people, to them, to the space between the dust particles in the air.

“Yes!” The photographer exclaims. “Pull her closer. Like that. Perfect! More!”

Jughead obeys, meeting Betty’s eyes for a brief moment of explanation before he grips her hips and lifts her into the air. The photographer chants in the affirmative again, and Jughead smiles: because this, after all, is what what they’re selling. Wear these track pants and you too can have Betty Cooper on your arm. Buy this sports bra and you’ll be as graceful as the golden swan herself.

They switch positions; Betty balances on his thighs, then on his back; she extends upward in his grasp, showcasing her beautiful, perfect line, the one that leaves all the dancers jealous and all of the audience in awe. All the while, the photographer keeps murmuring “yes, yes, yes”, so Jughead holds her tighter, dips her low against his knee with her leg extended elegantly, one hand curled around her face just to remind her and himself and everyone that this, this, _this_ between them is once in a goddamn million, that it cannot and _he_ cannot be replicated by anyone, not least all some fucking guy with an ugly hairdo in a coffee shop.

He lets her down finally, and Betty excuses herself to use the washroom almost immediately. Her face is flushed, potentially from the inversion, he reasons, even if he knows better. Even if it’s a victory, even if it’s a loss, really, it’s _something,_ and he needs it, needs goddamn anything. He’ll die on a battlefield just to watch her standing above him with the gun in her hand, so long as the look in her eye while she’s there is the same one that she’d had when he’d last pressed her into his mattress.

Even if he cries out in agony, at least he’s making a sound.

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Jughead relaxes back into a neatly-worn couch, taps his fingers on his knee, and looks around the small room. It feels a little more like a living room than a waiting room for a sports psychologist’s office: the sofa is very comfortable, the walls are a warm, rich brown colour, and the paintings above the armchairs feel like they've been lovingly chosen instead of just thrown up to fill space. It's classic Odette, he thinks, to disarm someone with welcoming decor and then pounce when their guard is down.

Not that he doesn't like Odette, _per se_. She's fine. Betty definitely utilizes her services on a one-on-one basis more frequently than he does, but as a team they've gone to see her regularly, and Jughead can admit that Odette has been pretty instrumental in helping them remain focused over the last couple of years. He just doesn’t like going to talk to her that much alone; it’s far too much attention paid to emotions and thoughts that he hasn’t worked through himself yet, and when it’s just him, Betty isn’t there to do most of the talking. Occasionally, he thinks it wouldn’t be completely insane to bring Betty to a one-on-one as his representative of sorts; she knows what he’s feeling most of the time, at least skating-wise, and is pretty good at articulating any of his various skating-related neuroses and nerves.

Today, though, that won’t work. Today Jughead is here to talk to Odette _about_ Betty, because he needs to nip this in the bud. He’s been compartmentalizing for three years, has been focused, determined, and after nesting in post-Man-Bun tension for a few days he’s decided that those three years aren’t something he’s prepared to just waste. They fucked up their shot at the gold three years ago, made a subsequent decision (still the hardest of his life) to back-track for the sake of their skating, and he’ll be damned if _now,_ the year that the past three have really all been in preparation for, he’s going to screw it up again. Betty’s obviously over it - she’s giving her number away to strangers in cafes, for god’s sake - and so even though he doesn’t think _over it_ is a place he will ever be, Jughead knows that it’s better for him to find a quick way back to that safer headspace, where everything fits in boxes and he can close the lid.

“Jughead?”

He turns at the sound of Odette’s voice and rises to his feet. She’s standing by the door to her office, smiling politely. “Hi, Odette.”

“Come on in,” she invites, ushering him into the room and closing the door behind him once he’s inside. He sinks into one of the armchairs scattered around her office and grinds his teeth thoughtfully while Odette takes a seat across from him. “Nice to see you coming in,” she comments. “Though I do have to say, I’m a bit surprised.”

“Just trying to keep everyone on their toes,” Jughead replies dryly.

Odette smiles patiently at him. “Getting ready for the season?” she asks. “Big year, this one. How are you feeling about that?”

“Fine.” He fidgets with his hands, then takes a hesitant breath. “Okay, I mean - that’s I guess why I’m here. Betty and I - you know we had some … stuff that went on a few years ago.” He can’t characterize it as a _problem,_ he just can’t, but it also doesn’t feel fair to call the fallout _good,_ either. “Recently there’s just been some stuff going on that’s putting me back in that space, mentally, and I guess I’m looking for a fast-track out of there. Things are gonna start picking up - media, training, all of it - and I need to be able to focus on what’s important.”

“And what’s important?” Odette asks, quietly crossing her legs.

Jughead looks up at her, confused. “Skating,” he says; it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Winning.”

Odette nods, looking pensive. She doesn’t speak for nearly a minute - Jughead fidgets again during the silence uncomfortable with her piercing gaze - and when she does, her voice is gentle. “But not Betty?”

“What?”

“Skating is the most important thing, but not Betty.”

Jughead frowns. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Odette confirms, “you didn’t. But it’s implied. Your interpersonal conflict can’t get in the way of your skating - you both have said as much to me over the last number of years. But you two are in an interesting position, different than solo athletes or even team sports. You’re a partnership, just two people, and in your case I know that connection runs very deep.”

He swallows, not offering any confirmation other than a nod.

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to - how did you put it? ‘Fast track out of there’. _There_ is the whole point, with you two; it’s that connection that makes you wonderful together, that makes you excellent skaters, that keeps the world and more importantly, yourselves, interested in this partnership.” She raises her eyebrows politely and clasps her hands on her lap. “You can compartmentalize for a certain period of time, Jughead, but ultimately you’re going to have to unravel whatever that thread is.”

“I can’t,” Jughead says firmly. “It almost ruined us last time.”

She offers a sympathetic smile. “I remember.” When he sighs in frustration, Odette reaches out and touches the arm of his chair. “If you can’t dig into that part, that’s fine, Jughead. But you need to make absolutely sure that what’s said between you two is honest, that the connection is authentic, that the trust is there. There’s nobody that can advise on your relationship other than you and Betty, you know that. I can help with the stress, with the pressure, with the focus - but the connection? That’s you two. Do something fun together, something other than toiling away with Luc and Sophie, and let yourselves remember what makes you guys so great.”

Jughead chews his lip thoughtfully and stares at the carpet. It’s got a really ugly pattern, he realizes. Red and beige triangles interspersed with little blue dots - what the hell were the designers thinking?

“Jughead?”

His head snaps up. “Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, I’ll try that.”

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It’s a few weeks later, early September, before any ideas strike Jughead.

Things have been going _okay._ They’ve learned their choreography for the short to Raquel’s approval, so work on it has been moved fully to the ice. Jughead much prefers this stage of training; it’s annoying to drive all the way across town just to dance off-ice, especially when it’s just been for one of their two dances. They’ve been skating for their free, a whirlwind tale of the rise and fall of a torrid and passionate relationship, for weeks now, and it’s admittedly relieving not to feel as though one dance is behind. Besides, with a renewed focus on the rink as their singular training location, minus gym work, Jughead and Betty have gained a nice extra hour or two in their day.

And today, on a Thursday, he finally decides how he wants to spend that time.

Betty’s talking to Sophie by the boards after practice, taking her time removing her blade guards and unlacing her skates. He’s scrolling through Instagram, a platform he detests but is nonetheless somehow enthralled by, when he spots a post from the city’s zoo that catches his eye. _Come check out the otters,_ it reads, accompanied by a photo of two floating mustelids. They’re pretty cute, he must admit, and they’re _holding hands,_ which is (probably, likely, definitely) what sets him over the edge.

Then, before he can stop himself, Jughead blurts, “Betts, let’s go to the zoo.”

Betty stops talking mid-sentence and turns away from Sophie, surprised at his interruption. “What?” she asks, slightly amused. “The zoo?”

He shows her his phone screen, even though she’s many feet away and can’t likely see it well. “They have otters.”

“Otters,” Betty repeats. “You want to see otters.”

Jughead thrusts his phone screen closer to her, insistent. “They're holding hands. Or paws. Or whatever.”

Sophie smiles, her eyes twinkling. “He makes a good argument,” she tells Betty.

Betty makes a noise that's nearly a snort; right afterward, a series of giggles tumbles out, and she shakes her head in near-disbelief. “Yeah, I guess he does.” She shrugs and stands up. “Okay, Steve Irwin. We’ll go to the zoo.” She puts her skates in her bag, then slings it over her shoulder. “Let me just change, and I’ll meet you out front.”

“Race you,” Jughead challenges, jutting his chin out playfully, as if they’re nine years old again and _I’ll race you_ is something that adults say.

Her jaw drops. “Jughead, I am a grown woman, and I will _not_ -” She stops, draws the corner of her lip between her teeth, then grins. “...lose!” she finishes, taking off to the locker room.

“Not fair!” he hollers in her direction, racing back to where he’d been standing to grab his skates. “Sophie, she’s _cheating!”_

Sophie just shakes her head at him. “Run faster, Jug,” she advises. “And don’t skip the wolves.”

He doesn’t. Over the next three and a half hours, beginning with Betty’s prompt and triumphant arrival first to her car in the parking lot of the rink and culminating in the flop of his tired body onto the grass by the caribou enclosure, they see _everything,_ the only exception being the snakes indoors (Betty’s refusal, not his).

On a whim, they end up documenting much of their visit on Betty’s Instagram - he doesn’t wanna talk about it - so there are also tons of pictures: of the animals, Betty’s exaggerated ‘I’m a proud American’ face near the eagle enclosure, Jughead making a purposely bored face at the black bear. Betty somehow manages to catch him looking at the river otters, too; he’s wearing an almost giddy expression, which she’d declared as “adorable” and then posted to her actual Instagram instead of just the temporary stories function.

He drags her to see the lizards, laughs when she runs out away from the snakes, and makes a lot of very intentional _Harry Potter_ references when they see the snowy owls, which he knows will win him favour. Betty had been obsessed with those books as a child - he remembers seeing a new copy of _The Goblet of Fire_ weighing down a ten-year-old Betty’s backpack, then immediately going to borrow a dog-eared copy from the library so that they’d have something to talk about at skating practice.

At the end of the day, with their stomachs grumbling, they order ice cream cones from a small stand near the exit. Jughead gets two scoops of chocolate and one of strawberry; Betty, usually a vanilla die-hard, orders a scoop of chocolate and then, in some kind of serendipitous moment sent from Jughead’s comedy gods, gets a second scoop that purports to be cherry blossom-flavoured.

“You’re literally eating Cheryl’s blood right now,” Jughead informs her, as they relax on a neatly-manicured lawn, watching the crowd (mostly made up of families with kids, all of whom are far more excited to see deer than Jughead thinks they should be) file politely by. “I hope you know that.”

“Cheryl’s blood would not taste like cherries,” Betty retorts, poking his knee. “At best, it tastes like a durian.”

“As long as it doesn’t _smell_ like a durian.”

“It probably does,” she replies, “that’s why her skin’s so pristine. Doesn’t want any scrapes to let the smell out.”

Jughead laughs. “Aren’t you technically a Blossom, kind of?”

Betty looks at him sharply. “Distantly related,” she corrects. “And the durian smell comes from her mother’s side. _Obviously.”_

“Of course, of course,” he accepts, chuckling. “I wonder if she’s any nicer now.”

“She’s at college,” Betty tells him. “Probably ruining the life of whoever’s stuck sharing a dorm room with her. Or - never mind, she’d never stoop to sharing a room.”

Jughead nods in amusement. He shouldn’t have brought up Cheryl Blossom; she’s a bit of a sore subject for Betty. Even though they’ve both known Cheryl forever, and have both been around her and in her home many times, there’d been something about Betty that had really irked Cheryl. His hypothesis is that it’s jealousy: Betty’s beautiful, graceful, talented. The ironic part of jealousy, Jughead thinks, is that Cheryl is all of those things too, but it can be so damningly overshadowed by her mean-girl persona.

“I still can’t believe she wouldn’t let me on the cheerleading squad,” Betty continues. “I mean, we _dance_ for a living!”

“You wouldn’t have had time anyway,” Jughead consoles, patting her back. “By that time we were just about to move up here.”

Betty glares at him. “That is _not_ the point.” She opens her mouth again, then stops and seems to think for a moment. Her expression softens slightly, then she adds, “I know you’re right. I should listen to you more.”

“What’s that?” Jughead asks, raising his eyebrows and straining his ears pointedly at her. “Repeat that for me?”

“Not a chance,” she laughs, dipping the last of her cone into her mouth. She crunches it loudly for a few moments, then leans her head on Jughead’s shoulder. They sit in silence for a little while, watching the people and the animals and the sun moving across the sky.

Finally, Jughead clears his throat. “This was fun,” he tells Betty. “Thanks for coming.”

She looks up at him with a smile, her eyes shining with what can only be recognized as happiness. “Anytime, Juggie.”

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Living in a shared apartment with one’s ex-girlfriend can, at times, be challenging. It’s something that they’d acknowledged early on in their apartment-hunting process: the need for privacy, for careful and separate spaces, for _boundaries._ And if he’s being perfectly honest, it’s worked out pretty well. Sure, there’s the odd awkward bathroom moment or emotionally fraught dinner, but for the most part, Jughead thinks they’ve managed to make it work. Part of that, he thinks, is their routine: he doesn’t enter her room, not unless he absolutely needs to, and she doesn’t come into his. _Usually._

Today is one of those exceptions. When he wakes, it’s not to the dulcet tones of his regular alarm, but to Betty’s voice repeating his name as she shakes his shoulder.

At the fourth _“Jug, wake up,”_ he finally opens one of his eyes. Jughead’s confused for a second; she’s dressed for practice, but it’s the middle of the night, why is she already -

“Oh fuck,” he swears, sitting up immediately. “Did I sleep in? How much time do I have?”

“Minus five minutes,” Betty says apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were actually asleep in here. And we have that ESPN interview today during practice, so I don’t know if you want to wear your COOPERJONES stuff, or -”

“Yeah, good idea,” Jughead says, hopping out of bed. He looks around for the samples Reebok had sent over, spots them on the reading chair-turned-closet in the corner, and goes over to grab them. “Give me thirty seconds, Betts. Just gotta change and brush my teeth.”

“Okay.” She’s biting her lip - he knows she’s nervous about being late, especially if they have an interview today - but she smiles anyway, and backs out of the room.

Jughead races around, tugging on his track pants and a blue Reebok x COOPERJONES shirt, then grabbing socks and deodorant. He makes a pit stop in the bathroom, decides he doesn’t have time to pack non-workout clothes, then arrives at the door to their apartment, where Betty is waiting. He pushes his feet into shoes, grabs a coat - it’s still warm outside, being mid-September, but the rink tends to be the same temperature regardless - then follows her out the door.

It’s not until they’re in her car and halfway to the rink that he realizes he hasn’t brushed his hair. It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast on the best of days, but it looks particularly messy today. Jughead looks over at Betty, takes note of her careful, pretty makeup and neat ponytail, and immediately feels regretful. Maybe ESPN will tag their spot as “beauty and the beast”, he muses silently.

They get to the rink on time, thanks to merciful traffic and a few clever maneuvers on Betty’s part, and are on the ice doing warm-ups with Flora and Forrest two full minutes before Luc and Sophie walk in.

“ESPN is just setting up,” Luc says, as they skate to the boards to meet them. “Jug, Betty, they’re going to start off with some video of the practice, then we’ll break for the sit-down while Sophie and I run Forrest and Flora’s free with them a little. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Betty chirps. She turns to Jughead and holds her hand out. “Shall we?” she asks, a nervousness passing over her eyes.

He understands immediately. They’ve been here before, of course; interviews are nothing new, but Olympic years tend to have far higher viewership, with much more attention paid, than other regular years. An interview now might actually be seen by someone other than figure skating die-hards. And the last time they did an Olympic interview, it had focused so prominently on their then-burgeoning-and-rumoured relationship that their skating had seemed to be an afterthought. Coupled with the disastrous way that Nationals had ended for them, regardless of their decent showing in Worlds later, Jughead knows that he and Betty need to make a good impression, and that neither of them have any interest in a repeat of that type of interview.

“Let’s give it hell,” he agrees. He takes her hand, takes a few casual strides, then they push off with a dramatic curve of the ice beneath their blades.

They run some of the more intricate parts of their short and free dances, making sure to showcase what’s definitely their best lift yet, for the climax of their free dance, then do a little bit of directed movements for the cameras. ESPN films Sophie helping them make adjustments to their twizzles and Luc giving Jughead specific advice on a lift, then they step off the ice to do a short sit-down with the rink in the background.

Betty smooths out her ponytail and adjusts her clothing. In contrast, someone offers Jughead a comb, which he dismisses in favour of pulling his favourite beanie onto his head. She smiles at his action, which he returns, but when the camera turns on the twinkle in her eye fades a little.

They speak technically about their routines, about the challenges in some of their lifts - careful always to guard their words, since subjective judging criteria in ice dance can be tenuous at best and they mustn’t reveal any of their known weaknesses, lest they be actively tracked - and then finally about the complications of training with some of their biggest rivals.

“We love training with Forrest and Flora,” Betty explains, smiling brightly for the camera. “We’ve been with them for a long time now and we’ve all become great friends. It’s great to have that support, to have people who know what you’re going through.”

The interviewer nods, smiling closed-mouth, and turns her attention to Jughead. “And what about each other?”

Jughead stares at her. “What _about_ each other?” he repeats.

The interviewer flips her hair and plasters her smile more tightly across her face. “Your partnership is infamous. The connection, it’s been talked about for years.”

Jughead knows exactly what she’s trying to do, but he’s not going to fall for it. Not this time. “We’re each other’s biggest fans,” he states matter-of-factly.

The woman nods, clearly slightly irritated with his lack of give, and turns back to Betty. “What is your favourite thing about skating with Forsythe?”

“Jughead,” he interrupts. Thirteen years of this and they _still_ insist on Forsythe, he’s -

“Jughead,” the interviewer repeats. “Apologies. What’s your favourite thing about skating with Jughead?”

Betty glances at him and touches her knee, which is off-camera, to his briefly. He knows what it means: _it’s fine._ He blinks once to tell her he gets it, and when she turns back to the interviewer it’s with that same bright smile as before. “Jughead is the most natural skater in competition,” she says. “There’s a lot of hard work all around, of course, but there are very few skaters who can just show up and skate like he can. And that’s great for a partnership, of course, because I have to be more technical and he is great about encouraging me to relax into the moment.” She stops, clears her throat a little, then adds, “His clean edges, too - he’s always had the best edges. Excellent natural ability.”

The ESPN reporter purses her lips. It’s obviously not the kind of answer she wanted, but she seems to be catching on that this is all she’ll be getting; Jughead forsees a lot of older footage to be used in their future. “And you, Jughead?” she prompts.

“Uhh.” Jughead pretends to think about it, a practiced bit he and Betty had rehearsed, and on cue, she nudges him playfully.

“Oh come on!” she recites.

Jughead grins at her. “Just kidding, Betty,” he says, turning back to the interviewer. “Her core strength is very impressive,” he tells her. “The way that she can express so much with the slightest move of her arms or legs, that’s very impressive also. Her footwork, particularly; it’s that technical edge that she was talking about, I think, that is the most helpful. Like Betty said, I think we complement each other well.”

The reporter nods, her false smile sliding by the second. “Well, thank you,” she says. “Best of luck this season.”

“Thanks,” they chorus, then begin to remove their mic packs. Jughead catches Betty’s eye as they hand them back to the production crew and smirks; a moment later, she returns the prideful look.

_Nailed it._

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He’s gone through a few stages over the last few years.

For a few days after they break up, after the last time she visits him in the basement of Elle and Clark’s house, Jughead feels like he can barely speak. He _is_ talking, or at least making some kind of noises with his mouth that loosely emulated words, but he’d be damned if he knows what he’s saying. He recalls reusing brief phrases - “thank you Elle”, “I’m gonna go to bed, I’m wiped”, “large coffee, black” - but none of those really stand out in his memory, none of them mean anything, because the only thing he can hear himself saying in the days immediately afterward is the thing he wishes he’d never had to say at all: _I’ll love you like I used to._

In the weeks following, things are tense, but he can kind of breathe again. They’re speaking, at least, and they’re skating and dancing, and they somehow manage to compete at Worlds without falling apart. He spends those weeks looking at his phone, musing if he should call Archie and tell him about it all, wondering if maybe Riverdale’s own Casanova might have some advice. In the end, he doesn’t, and the greatest weeks of his life remain an open, unspoken secret to anyone who really knows him.

When the weeks turn to months and a new skating season starts, things ease up a little. He doesn’t have to hear the music for the _Tango Romantica_ or the theme from _Amelie_ every day, and the jabbing pain begins to dull. The wound still throbs, and the slightest press on that skin still elicits a sharp hiss of pain, but it’s not bleeding anymore. He spends a little time apart from Betty - mere days, in reality, but it might as well be years in their world - and when they return to Montreal to start anew, the sky’s a little clearer. She can smile at him without the flash of memories in her eyes, and the pit in his stomach grows deeper even as the opening narrows.

By the time the months become years, things are so different from those early days that they’re almost unrecognizable. They’ve graduated. They move into an apartment together. They practice and they skate and they win. They smile at each other, they wave to the cameras, and they live their dream. Sometimes, everything is great. Sometimes he feels happy and he thinks it might actually be real. It becomes worth it, maybe. The returns are not yet diminishing, technically speaking, even if nobody has ever defined what they are measuring. They have medals around their necks and world rankings beside their names, but he’s not sure if this is what success is supposed to feel like.

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His birthday passes without much fanfare, per usual. Like every year, Betty makes him a baked, sugary treat - this year it’s cookies again, made somehow with cookies-and-cream protein powder so that their nutritionist doesn’t lose his mind about the extra carbs - and they watch a movie. He opens her present, a nice watch with a light-coloured design on the face that reminds him vaguely of Olympic rings, thanks her, and that’s it. He doesn’t think about the birthday he’d had while they were together; he can’t.

It’ll always be a small chip in the windshield, but he can still see.

His dad calls late. His mom calls bright and early the next day, clearly part of a renewed effort on her part to engage with her son, and Jughead doesn’t have the heart to tell her she got the day wrong.

Then, two weeks later, near the end of October, the chip forms a run, and the glass cracks.

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It starts when Jughead’s nutrition-counting app buzzes on his phone to alert him that he hasn’t had enough protein today. _Don’t forget to hit your macros!_ it says jauntily, the pushed notification shining on his home screen. When he opens it, the suggested image of a protein shake pops up, and Jughead wants to barf at the sight.

He’s _sick_ of protein shakes. He’s _tired_ of macros and tracking and counting. He knows that it’s key to his performance, and is fully aware that Betty’s been doing this for years without much difficulty, but he’s always been able to get away with just _kind of_ playing ball. He’d eat the healthy food, but he wasn’t going to feel guilty about the beavertails, either. And Jughead still doesn’t feel guilty, but ever since he’d been made to download this app on his phone, he’s a little too cognizant of the gap between his targeted protein intake and his actual intake. Even cookies-and-cream flavoured protein shakes cannot a meal make, he thinks.

Still, he figures he should probably make an effort, so he walks to the fridge and stares inside. There’s not much - they haven’t gotten groceries in a while, since they’ve been skating near-constantly to prepare for Skate America right away - so Jughead digs deep to see what kind of options he really has. He comes out of the fridge with half a pack of turkey bacon, a container of mushrooms, some slightly questionable ham, a block of cheese and about half a dozen eggs.

“Guess it’s breakfast for supper,” Jughead comments to himself. He locates the grater in one of the cupboards, shreds some of the cheddar, then begins to slice the mushrooms. As he’s chopping them, he hears some rustling around the corner of the hallway, and calls, “Betts!”

There’s more rustling, and she calls back, “Yeah?”

“I’m making omelettes for supper. We’re a bit light on the eggs, but - do you want turkey bacon in yours, or just ham?” He grabs two bowls from the shelf and begins to separate the mushrooms into two piles, one for each of them.

“Oh, uh - hang on.” He hears more noise, something that sounds a little like a zipper, then footsteps.

Jughead is just grabbing the turkey bacon, preparing to lay it out on a baking sheet - his favourite way to cook bacon, especially if he’s going to crumble it into an omelette after - when he sees a flash of blonde hair around the corner. “Cool, you’re here. So, turkey bacon, or -” He stops suddenly and stares at her, taken aback by her outfit. She’s wearing a dress: semi-casual, he’d guess, dark blue with short sleeves, and sheer tights. Her hair is curled nicely and down over her shoulders, a rare look these days. It seems a bit formal for dinner, and even though he knows in his heart what’s going on, he can’t help but make a weak joke anyway. “Didn’t have to dress up for me, Betts.”

Betty stares at him almost apologetically. “I - I don’t need dinner,” she stammers.

Jughead looks at her, sees the nervousness on her face and the worried twitch of her mouth, but he can’t bring himself to bow out nicely. Not with how good things have been lately, since the zoo; not with the space they’re in. Not _now_. “Not eating?” he comments.

“I’m - I’m going out for dinner,” she says, the words a little hurried, like if she doesn’t get it all out at once the phrase will never leave her lips.

He swallows, feeling the weight of the unspoken implication settle between them. She hasn’t said it yet; it could still not be true. She could be eating with Flora, for all she’s indicated, but he knows better. Nobody curls their hair to have a casual supper with their skating colleague.

“I won’t be late,” Betty offers, picking her purse up off the table by the doorway. His eyes follow her as she slides her feet into ankle boots and lifts her coat from the rack, then turns to look at him again. “We have practice at six, so … I’ll be home.”

Jughead nods, not breaking her gaze. “Okay,” he says, speaking finally.

Despite the fact that she’s obviously wearing lip gloss, Betty draws her lower lip between her teeth and begins to nibble it, an anxious habit that he’s observed for years. There are things he knows he should say. _Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Break a leg. Have fun._ Maybe even _you look pretty,_ if he was a better man. But he’s not. He’s not going to tell her to have a good time on a date with another guy. He doesn’t have the emotional fortitude to joke about not doing anything he wouldn’t, partly because this, all of this: he wouldn’t.

Always more perceptive about him than anyone else, Betty shifts uncomfortably from one leg to another. Her hands begin to fidget around her coat. “Jughead -”

“You look pretty,” he tells her suddenly, interrupting the explanation that he doesn’t need to hear. It’s the only truth he can offer.

Her eyes soften, and for a brief moment he thinks there might even be a wetness in them, but then she blinks and it’s gone. “Juggie …”

Whatever she’s going to say, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, _can’t_. Jughead turns away instead of cutting her off, his back facing her, and her voice falters. He busies himself at the stove, turning a pan on high and dropping the bacon in until the sizzle is all he hears. Beneath it, like a soft whisper, there’s the sound of a door closing.

He doesn’t react.

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Even though he’s no longer that hungry, Jughead eats his omelette anyway, then texts his little sister to see if she and their mom have some time to videochat. Jellybean responds in the affirmative, adding, _Give us twenty minutes,_ so Jughead cleans up the kitchen and has a quick shower to occupy the time. He wants to think about it, about Betty, but he can’t afford this, not right now. They didn’t go through the last three years of painful readjustment to have it all fall apart again.

 _No._ He can deal with this. It’s just a date. It was bound to happen eventually. As long as they don’t have to talk about it, it’ll be okay.

By the time Jellybean calls on FaceTime, he’s still feeling morose, but the shower has hopefully cleansed any of the redness from his face, and neither she nor their mother make a comment.

“Hey Jughead,” Jellybean greets, pulling her phone back to wave at him. She tilts the screen toward their mother, who’s seated beside her, and Gladys also waves. “What’s up?”

Jughead shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, glad that the distinctions between him looking at Jellybean and him looking at his mother can’t possibly be made clear over such a small screen. He’s kept in decent contact with Jellybean, seeing her on the few occasions that she’s been back to Riverdale and then visiting her once when they’d been at a competition in Columbus. It’s odd, their dynamic: they’re six years apart in age, which is usually enough of a gap to cause a lapse in connection, but they’ve lived apart for so long that his move to Montreal hadn’t affected anything. She’s still his little sister, but he hasn’t shared living space with her since he was fourteen years old and she was just shy of eight. As a result, he’s really gotten to know her at a distance, but the challenge has been worth it.

His mother is a different story. For years after she left, Jughead hadn’t spoken much to her, choosing to spend his time speaking instead to Jellybean. But recently, when he’d made a somewhat reluctant detour to Toledo after their Columbus event, things had changed a bit between them. He’d seen the life they’d built there, the life that they were realistically still _trying_ to build, and it had struck a chord somewhere in his gut. Initially, they’d been living at his grandparents’, but somewhere along the line his mother and sister had moved out into a trailer. A trailer that, he couldn’t escape noticing, looked nearly identical to his father’s.

She was trying to make things work, Jughead had realized then, just trying to keep her head above water, despite her problems, despite her responsibilities - or maybe because of them, he can’t be sure. “Things aren’t perfect,” a then-fourteen-year-old Jellybean had shrugged at the time, “but we get by.”

At the time, he was less than a year out of the breakup, and it had resonated deeply. Then, _getting by_ was all he could hope for. They were just like him, he’d reasoned, just like his dad. Just getting by, or trying to.

Since then, he’d made more of an effort to keep in touch with his mother. Some days, it’s like pulling teeth; he gets the sense that his mother shouldn’t have been a parent so early, that she should’ve had more time for her own life, to figure out herself, to learn about … the world, or whatever, before the world had a chance to come hit her in the face. He’s been trying to forgive her mistakes in small steps, but it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes, he still hangs up on her, and sometimes, he doesn’t call at all, but it’s still better than it was when silence was the dominant sound between them.

“How’s the program for this year going?” His mother asks, leaning into the cell camera like she’s not quite sure where the audio comes from.

“It’s going okay,” Jughead answers. “I think we’ve got everything down pretty well, but we’ve got a couple of weeks until our first major events start.”

“And the Olympics?” Jellybean asks, eager. “When do you find out about those?”

“Not for a little while.” Jughead offers a little smile, then asks, “If we get to go, are you guys gonna come watch? I know Denver’s not exactly close, but … once-in-a-lifetime. Or there’s Skate America, that’s in Chicago right away.”

His mother’s face is unreadable. “I don’t know, Jug. That’s pretty far.”

Part of Jughead wants to ask which, _Denver or Chicago?_ , but he knows what the answer is, so he doesn’t. He chews his bottom lip, so accustomed to his parents’ dismissals of his skating events that it barely registers as pain. “How’s school, JB?”

“Shitty,” Jellybean answers. “My English teacher is the _worst_. We’re doing a unit on ‘banned books’ and I wanted to do _The Satanic Verses_ but she was like, ‘Absolutely not! Too controversial!’” She scowls. “Isn’t that the entire _point,_ like…?”

Jughead laughs. Even though he’s not even sure what it’d really be like, he wishes that his sister was here, living with him. He’s sure there are logistics of raising a minor that’s not your child in a foreign country that he’d have to contend with, but he just knows - can feel it, deep in his chest - that Jellybean’s presence would have made everything over these last few years so much more bearable.

When he ends the call after a little while, it’s with an honest, “I miss you guys.” The sentiment is returned, however passively, then Jughead looks out the window. It’s dark outside now, he notices; soon, it’ll be time for Betty to be heading home.

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She doesn’t come back for another two hours once he starts officially counting, which Jughead estimates was approximately forty-five minutes after she’d actually left.

It’s not actually that late - ten-ish, though he tends to go to sleep early when they have six-am rink time the next day - but Jughead feels somehow like it’s three in the morning when the apartment door finally creaks open. He’s up, because in the brief moment where he’d tried to go to bed, sleep had eluded him. He’s on his laptop, writing, something he hasn’t had time for lately that used to really calm him down. A couple of months ago, before things had gotten really busy, he’d been about thirty thousand (mediocre) words into what he thinks might one day be a novel about a murder in a small town. Jughead likes the juxtaposition - it’s a quaint setting, not unlike Riverdale, and the entry of a heinous murder into life there makes for an interesting plot line - and so when he hadn’t been able to quickly fall asleep, he’d decided to re-immerse himself in that world.

It’s not because he needs a distraction. It’s _not._ He just misses writing, and he needs a hobby. It had been his first love, before skating, before all of this: some days he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d decided to pursue it as ardently as he’s been pursuing ice dance.

Jughead turns around and gives her a brief wave that he hopes is friendly enough. He feels a little bad about the way he’d let her leave - it’s not her fault that he hasn’t been able to move on as quickly as she has. He should be supportive, he should be glad, should be happy for her that she’s maybe found someone that can put a smile on her face for a reason other than high competition scores.

He _should_ be, but he isn’t.

Still, he can maybe fake it, at least a little, and Betty seems relieved when he greets her. “Hey,” she replies, “didn’t think you’d be up still.”

“I’m writing,” Jughead tells her, turning back to his laptop. “Decided to see if I could get a little work done.”

“Oh.” Betty sits down on the edge of one of their armchairs, perpendicular to the couch that he’s settled into. “How’s that going?”

“Not well,” he answers honestly. “But it feels good to write anyway, even if I’m rusty.”

“Yeah.” She nods gently. “Well, that’s good.”

Jughead doesn’t respond at first, but when he realizes she’s waiting for some kind of additional input from him, he clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“So …” Betty begins, her tone gentle and delicate already in the way that he’s been dreading. _No._

“I should go to bed,” he interrupts. “Early ice time and all that.”

Betty looks almost hurt at his refusal, but she recovers quickly and nods. “Oh - okay. Yeah, of course. The time.”

Jughead stands up, shutting the top of his laptop, and tucks it under his arm. He walks around to the large windows, taking a moment to look out at the sparkling lights of Montreal, then flicks the lamp off. Betty stays sitting on the arm of the chair, watching him as he moves around the living room, first placing his laptop back on their shared desk and then filling an empty cup with fresh water in the kitchen. Her eyes are piercing on his back, and it’s starting to bother him.

“You don’t have to stare, Betty. I’m not going to shatter into a million pieces,” he finally says, after he’s wiped up the crumbs from a minor popcorn binge and approached the hallway to the bedrooms.

Betty stands up quickly. “I didn’t say - I wasn’t!” She takes a couple of large steps toward him, then, as if thinking better of it, stops suddenly. “You just seemed … bothered, and I thought maybe we could -”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Betty,” Jughead interrupts. “I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” she replies uncertainly. “Can -”

“Where’d you meet him?” Jughead asks abruptly. “The guy. Where’d you meet him?”

Betty seems confused by his question. “At the cafe,” she says slowly. “A couple of months ago. You were there.”

 _A couple of months ago?_ He doesn’t recall - “Oh my _god,_ ” Jughead hisses, unable now to stop himself. “You went on a date with _Man-Bun?”_

She looks slightly affronted. “His name is Valentin.”

He bursts out laughing, but there’s nothing funny about this, no mirth to be had. “Valentin.” He says the name slowly, clearly, in case he’s gotten it wrong. “You’re going out with fucking Cupid?”

“Cupid in French is _Cupidon,_ actually,” Betty points out. “So no, on that front alone. And I don’t think you exactly have the right to be angry about this.”

“Angry?” Jughead repeats. “I’m not _angry,_ Betty. I’m happy.” He can hear the biting sarcasm in his own voice; there’s no mistaking his words. “So happy for you that I feel like I could fucking _burst_ with rainbows and fucking butterflies.”

Tears are stinging her eyes now. Even in the dull light, Jughead can see them. He’s being an asshole, he knows, but he can’t stop himself. A gate has been opened, and the herd is finally free.

“Valentin is a nice guy,” Betty informs him, jutting her chin out. She folds her arms across her chest defensively. “He’s friendly and smart and there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“I’m so glad,” Jughead replies. “Really glad. Does he know who you are?”

“He didn’t, when he asked. He does now.”

“Oh, so he can use Google. Cool.”

“Jughead.” She’s holding her head artificially high. He knows it’s because she doesn’t want the tears to spill out. He knows, because he’s been there when they do. He knows because he’s wiped them away, he’d held her, he’s soothed her. He’s been that person for her, the comforting presence, the shoulder to cry on.

He never thought he’d end up being the one to cause them.

Jughead swallows and closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down. This isn’t happening right now. They’re a week away from Skate America. They don’t have _time_ for this. He can stop this, he thinks, he’ll put the cattle back in the pasture and it’ll all be fine -

Then, she speaks, and he’s so incredulous at her words that he almost asks her to repeat herself.

“You don’t get to be like this,” Betty says quietly. “You’re the one that ended it.”

His eyes fly open immediately, but his mouth doesn’t follow suit. There are no words to say. _You’re the one that ended it._ It’s the truth, technically - he’d brought it up before she could, knowing that it needed to be done and not wanting her to have to be the one to do it. He’d fall on any sword for her, however dramatic, however necessary. That’s what it had been, and he’d seen the devastated gratitude in her eyes then. He _knows_ that it had been mutual.

Jughead pulls his beanie off of his head. He has nothing left to offer this conversation, not tonight. If there are any further words, he’ll definitely regret them. He tosses his hat in the general direction of the kitchen counter and then walks away from Betty, turning down the hall. He ignores the break in her voice when she calls his name; he can’t deal with her pity, her anger, _and_ her regret in one night. Wordlessly, he steps into his bedroom, closes the door behind himself, then locks it.

She knocks, just once.

He doesn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

Beyond gauzy, pale blue curtains (the very first thing Betty picked out for the very first room she was ever able to decorate herself, not dictated by her mother’s standards or her host family’s taste), the sky is dark, the moon nothing more than a slender sliver, and the air is full of the faint sounds of traffic. There is an ebb and flow to the soundtrack of Montreal’s roads, the whir of tires on pavement and the sound of a breeze breaking around a car punctured occasionally by total silence. Thanks to their rigorous training schedule, Betty almost always goes to bed early, when many of the city’s occupants are still out and about, and over the past few years she’s come to think of the sound of cars on streets as her lullaby, a free white noise machine.

Tonight, however, the sound isn’t easing her into dreamland. Despite having completed all the pre-competition rituals that usually ease her anxiety, despite curling up under her fluffy white comforter with a cup of sleepy-time tea and a book a full hour before she needed to go to sleep, her eyes don’t feel tired at all. Instead, she’s wide awake, and she can’t stop thinking about sex.

Betty’s good at telling her body what to do (stretch further, find centre, be strong, channel grace), and pretty good at ordering her mind around too (think about the music, ignore your competitors, stop feeling guilty about a single chocolate bar, concentrate on what’s important), so it’s rare that she allows her thoughts to travel down this path. She dismisses the occasional flash of arousal that shoots through her body like lightning, channels her restlessness into her sessions at the gym. When she watches characters sleep together in a movie, or when the guys at the rink are making dirty jokes, she purposefully clears her mind, not allowing herself a reaction. She doesn’t have time to think about sex, but now she sort of has no choice, because she went on a date last weekend, a perfectly lovely date, and after sitting down to dinner with a man who insisted on covering the bill, she has to acknowledge that her date wants to fuck her.

Valentin hasn’t said as much; he’s been polite, gentlemanly even, and incredibly patient as he waited for her to find a couple free hours in her jam-packed schedule to meet him for dinner. But she knows that he asked her out because he finds her attractive, and she knows that they’re both in their early twenties, and she knows that for most people her age, sex is very much on the table, very much on the mind. If she wants to date Valentin - or anyone, really - it’s going to be a part of her reality.

But Betty can’t imagine sex with Valentin as anything but getting fucked by a guy who wants to fuck her, a kind of sexual encounter that seems to erase her subjectivity, and it’s almost impossible to wrap her head around. She’s only ever had sex with Jughead, and sex with her skating partner was like an intricate step sequence to the crescendo of a cinematic score, both of them actively involved, both of them so aware of one another, anticipating each other’s wants and needs the way they do on the ice, the way they do when they order coffee, the way they do when they pick a new Netflix show to watch. She doesn’t know how to have sex with someone who doesn’t know her heart and her body that way, who can’t tug whimpers out of her throat and into his mouth and then swallow all her small sounds like they belong to him.

(She’s not entirely sure that she can convince her body _or_ her mind to even kiss someone who doesn’t know her that way. Valentin lingered with her in the lobby of the building, his eyes on her mouth, his hand on her shoulder, and in a rush of something like cowardice, she elected to air-kiss both his cheeks in the way the French so often do when they said goodbye.)

She sighs, cringing when she looks at her phone and reads that the time is 11:36. She has to get up at 4:45 to get ready to head to the airport, and sleep is still eluding her.

Feeling restless and riled up, she shifts around in her bed, squeezing her legs together. It doesn’t make any sense - Valentin was a good conversationalist, and he made her laugh, and teased her that he wanted to get her out on a rink in hockey skates one day, and told her she looked beautiful, but he hadn’t turned her on.

And yet. Here she is, slipping a hand slowly, almost reluctantly, past the drawstring-waist of her otter-printed flannel pyjama pants (Polly mailed them up after Betty recorded her day with Jughead at the zoo on Instagream; she’d texted her sister _you’re not funny, Poll_ , but she wears the pants all the time).

She touches herself over underwear that’s already slightly damp, rubbing gently, drawing her lower lip into her mouth, smothering the little sigh that wants to escape. It’s only when she slides her hand into her panties that her lips part and she murmurs, “Juggie…” as she turns her face into her pillow, imagining that the fingers inside her belong to him.

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Betty’s parents, Polly, and her sister’s newly-minted fiancé, Jason Blossom, are already in Chicago when they arrive. She admires Polly’s new antique ring with enthusiasm and gives her future brother-in-law a hug, and listens to Polly talk wedding plans all through the cab ride to the hotel. Her family’s presence and her sister’s engagement could ostensibly give Betty reason to schedule some Coopers-only time away from Jughead, since things are still tense between them off-ice. But, as always, her family is here, and his is conspicuously _not_ , so she includes him in their dinner plans without a second thought.

Her father’s made a reservation at The Capital Grille, and Betty has the distinct sense that they’re celebrating not only Polly’s engagement but are optimistically pre-celebrating success at Skate America as well. It makes her edgy, the thought of counting their chickens before they hatch, and she picks anxiously at the threads of her wool tights, stretched over her knee, as she examines her menu.

Before she can manage to create a hole in the fabric, Jughead reaches over and covers her hand with his own, his fingers slipping between hers. When she looks up at him, she finds his head tilted, hints of concern in his eyes. “Okay?” he asks quietly. The word is inaudible for her father and Jason, who are passively watching Alice and Polly’s tight-smile-filled argument over the colour of bridesmaids’ dresses (they’re in favour of pink and red, respectively).

She thinks she’s mad at Jughead, or he’s mad at her, or - she’s not really sure anymore, she just knows that it’s been very quiet in their apartment, and that he’s been dropping her hand every practice before they skate over to the boards to receive feedback from Luc and Sophie. But now his hand is on hers, and his fingertips are on her kneecap, and he’s _Jughead_ , so she confesses, on an exhale, “Nervous.”

He leans in closer and promises her, “We’re ready.” Off her doubtful look - they’ve been here before, after all, and they thought they were ready then too - he adds, “We’ve never been so ready.”

“I just can’t do it again, Jug,” she tells him, lips barely moving, her eyes pinned back on her menu, the words fuzzy at their edges. “Utah.”

“Betty.”

She drags her eyes to his once again and thinks, suddenly, that she feels like crying. He uses his chin to gesture to the restaurant’s windows, to the city outside, and his voice is firm when he says, “Illinois.” She understands right away what he means: they might still be in the same story, but this is an entirely new chapter.

“I know you’ve got this, Betts,” he says, with such conviction in his voice that it seems to vibrate through the air around them. “I know we do.”

She takes a slow breath. “Together,” she says, trying to echo his confidence, leaving _right?_ unsaid.

It’s a word they’ve said to one another a thousand times, a word that has a predetermined script attached to it. One of them says it, the other supplies an echo, and just like that they’re on the same page, on the same line, the same word, the same exact stamp of ink against paper. When she says _together_ , he says it back.

But not tonight. Instead, his face goes soft, slipping into a guarded display of the sadness she feels. He looks at her for a long time, and he doesn’t repeat the word.

“Forever,” is what he ultimately says, and somehow, between the first and third syllables, it feels like he’s filled her up to the brim and then wrung her empty.

A beaming waitress materializes at Betty’s side, two champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle in the other. A waiter stands behind her, holding additional flutes. “I hear a celebration is in order for a newly engaged couple!” the waitress trills, setting the bottle down right between Betty and Jughead.

“Oh,” Betty gasps as Jughead snatches his hand off her knee. “Oh, no, no, that’s - over there.” She waves a hand to the other side of the table, where Polly and Jason sit. “There are the lovebirds,” she tries to joke.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she waitress says, still beaming. She plucks up the bottle of champagne and circles the table to fill the flutes for Jason and Polly as she asks questions about their big day. Betty watches her sister’s cheeks flush with happiness and feels morose in a way that has her wishing desperately that her meal plan allowed for just one sip from the glass that’s set in front of her for a toast to a future full of love.

After her father’s thanked Jason for being so good to his firstborn daughter, Jughead clinks his flute against Betty’s. He doesn’t look her in the eye.

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They’re up bright and early the next moment for their short dance practice. The waltz is a dance meant to be reminiscent of yesteryear; Betty is a lady, and Jughead is her gentleman, and they’re meant to portray their love for each other through their movement, through the moments she plays shy and moves to turn away, through the way his dedication to her shines through the hands that consistently reach for her. Ruth’s made her a gorgeous costume that looks like a deconstructed version of Cinderella’s blue ballgown, and Jughead wears a bowtie and suspenders that make him look so charming that at times Betty can hardly stand it, but for practice they both show up in all black, his muscles defined even under his long-sleeved shirt, a thin sweater zipped up over her leotard. Betty’s hand slips into his at the exact same moment they both stroke out onto the ice, leading with their right feet. 

Sophie stands by the boards with nothing short of her game face on, like this is her own Grand Prix and she intends to win. Her hair, like Betty’s, is pulled into a high, tight ponytail. “I want to see your twizzles,” she tells them. “Using your arms as accents.” As they nod, she leans in a bit closer. “The story starts now,” she reminds them softly, and they need no further explanation to know exactly what she means. The story they’re telling on ice needs to exist in practice just as it does during performances; sometimes judges show up to watch, and putting on a compelling performance is nearly as important as their technical execution. They need to set a tone, create a mood, layer emotion atop of precision.

They do their twizzles for Sophie, and once they’ve glanced over at her and noted her blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nod of approval, they clasp hands again and begin skating around the outer edge of the rink as the Spanish team takes centre ice to run through their short.

“Felt good,” Jughead says quietly, each of his words sinking into the sound of their blades moving on the ice. Betty squeezes his fingers, a silent agreement.

The Spanish team begins twizzling toward the edge of the ice, and Jughead nudges her body in front of his own so she doesn’t risk being run into. His hands settle on her shoulders and then skim downward, rubbing over her arms, undoubtedly feeling the chill of the rink on her skin even through the stretchy fabric of her warm-up sweater. Betty sets both skates down on the ice and just lets herself glide along, slowly losing momentum, until the warm wall of Jughead’s chest collides with her back and her eyes drift shut of their own accord. It’s so comfortable to lean against him, to feel his arms wrap loosely around her waist, that she’d almost be content to stay there for the rest of the practice period.

“Betts,” he murmurs. She opens her eyes. “In the second footwork sequence - ”

“Mmhm,” she murmurs back, already understanding where he’s going with this.

“After your back outside turn - ”

“Grab your hand before your shoulder,” she says, easily completing his sentence. “I will.”

“Only if it feels unsteady.”

Their Spanish competitors have completed their dance; Betty hears a smattering of applause from the spectators who’ve shown up to watch practice. She and Jughead are next. She turns her face toward his and discovers that his chin is dipped down low so that he could speak softly into her ear and, abruptly, finds that there is only about an inch of space between their lips. She can’t help but stare at his mouth. His lips are chapped, a common side effect of spending at least four hours a day in a building that houses frozen water.

She gives her head a little shake as he unwinds his arms from around her. “It won’t feel unsteady,” she says and a grin lights up his face for a heartbeat before he takes her hand and leads her to the spot where they take their opening poses. She starts their short dance with one hand in his, like he’s just requested a dance with her, and the other on his chest, which lets her slide her hand to his shoulder quickly once the music begins. She remembers what Sophie said about the story and gives him her biggest, I’m-so-enchanted smile, and instead of just placing her other hand on him, allows her palm to move slowly over his pectoral muscle, smoothing out the fabric of his breathable, sweat-wicking shirt. Jughead’s eyes flick down to her hand, and this his own hand drifts up to cover it, to hold her palm over his heart. It’s not part of their choreo, but the first notes of the music sound, and Betty doesn’t have a chance to analyze it.

As is typical during practice, they don’t perform every single piece of their short dance, taking breaks now and again and only focusing on the elements they want to run through. They whirl around the ice in the first pattern of the dance, feet moving with rapid-fire speed as they turn, legs extended behind them as their blades carve into the ice, Betty’s ponytail flying when she twirls beneath his arm.

They take a break when the pattern is about to repeat, stopping at a point when the choreography has Jughead down on a knee, about to spin her in to perch on his knee for a second before he spins her out again. Betty drops her arm from its ballet-esque position above her head and is about to remove her other hand from Jughead’s, but before she can, she feels his lips on her skin, a kiss dropped against her knuckles before he gets to his feet. She blinks as they begin to skate laps to keep warm until the musical cue for their lift; her hand is tingling, a fiery sensation right across the back of what is now a fist.

It’s the narrative, she tells herself. It’s the story: courtship, the tentative gestures of first love, wide-eyed innocence and delight. It’s acting, what they’re doing; it isn’t real. Despite that, though, the almost violent fluttering sensation at the base of her throat is very much authentic.

They pick up their choreo eight counts before their lift and launch into it. Betty holds all her muscles tightly and moulds herself into various positions as her body spins around Jughead’s, his hands landing on her hips and ribs and arms and inner thighs as he keeps her in the air, twining around him as gracefully as she can. It goes well, and it effectively marks the end of their practice, since they don’t intend to perform the remaining twenty seconds of their routine.

The lift finishes with her arms around Jughead’s neck, her body flush with his as he holds her about half a foot above the ice. Today, their noses brush, which is something that’s happened only once or twice before, by accident - but today, there’s a story. He’s supposed to put her down, and she loosens her grip on him a little in expectation of finding herself back on the ice, but instead he holds her tighter, still moving slowly across centre ice, and rocks her body back and forth gently in his grasp, a playful kind of hug, and giggles start spilling out of Betty’s mouth before she even registers that she’s amused. Jughead smiles the second she starts to laugh and sets her down. His hands stay on her waist for a moment longer than they need to, and Betty finds herself smiling back at him foolishly, sweetly, wide-eyed with innocent delight that is genuine down to its very last ounce.

The next day, they win the short dance, rocketing into first place and remaining there with a comfortable 5.2 point lead, but it’s their practice session that lingers in her memory.

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The morning of their free dance, they convene in Betty’s hotel room, which her roommate has thankfully vacated, along with their physiotherapist, Michelle. As Jughead takes his turn on Michelle’s table, Betty stretches on the floor, legs spread wide and her elbows resting on the hotel carpet between them. They talk through their dance softly, Betty humming bars of music as Jughead mutters, “And arms and turn, turn, knees and breathe…”

“I don’t think we should be afraid to be kind of dramatic on that part,” Betty says, stretching her arms up over her head. She’s wearing her favourite item from the COOPERJONES collection, a soft blue sweatshirt with their surnames printed just above the hem on the back.

Jughead turns his head to look at her. His eyes are still a little tired, and his mouth quirks into a crooked smile. “I’m never afraid to be dramatic, Betts.”

“Oh, right,” she says with a quiet laugh. “I forgot you were the thespian in this partnership.”

He snorts, but goes on to tease her, “Juliet, Juliet; wherefore art thou - ”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Michelle doesn’t want to hear your monologue, Romeo. Anyway,” she adds, planting one foot flat on the ground and stretching her other leg back in a lunge, “that’s my line.”

She winks at him, and he smiles at her, the upward tilt of his lips vanishing briefly as he winces at whatever Michelle is doing to his hip flexor, and everything feels painfully normal. It feels like they’re ten years old again, waiting to compete, channeling their nervous energy into teasing each other, her giggles reaching higher and higher pitches, his quiet voice her only source of certainty.

Michelle breaks the moment by setting Jughead’s leg back down and asking him to sit up so she can take a look at his shoulders, all those muscles he uses everyday to sweep Betty up off of the ice. She switches legs so that she can stretch her muscles out evenly and fixes her gaze on the floor. In her peripheral vision, she catches sight of the screen of her cell phone, the volume of which is almost always silenced, lighting up.

She reaches for her phone and finds that she has several texts. Veronica has messaged her _we’re going to watch you on the big screen!_ meaning the home theatre her family’s New York penthouse has. Flora has sent _good luck!_ along with a purple heart emoji. Polly says _so excited for you baby sister! we can’t wait to watch you be amazing!_ Her former host mother Louise messages to say that she and Guillaume are _sending all our love_. And Valentin writes that he won't be able to watch a live stream of the event since he’s working, but that he’s wishing her luck and _I know you’ll crush it Betty._

It’s a slightly jarring text to find on her phone. Veronica, Flora, and Polly are expected, Louise is a sweet surprise, but Valentin seems out of place. It’s like he’s still outside the borders of her life, waiting patiently to be let in. She knows it’s her decision, to determine if she’ll let him in or keep him out. It’s just not a choice she’s figured out how to make just yet.

Because she’s nothing if not unfailingly polite, she texts him back _thank you :) have a great day at work_ and then types out quick responses to all her other messages. When she straightens up out of her lunge, she sees that Jughead’s looking at her with expectant eyes.

“Thought you were putting on our playlist,” he explains.

She nods, quickly opening up her Spotify app and locating the playlist - Forrest calls pre-competition playlists ‘get hype’ mixes, but Jughead refuses to adopt that terminology - and selects the single Taylor Swift song Jughead had let her add before hitting shuffle, and he rolls his eyes like she exhausts him, and she hides her grin by peeling off her sweater, and everything feels normal once again.

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They leave Skate America as gold medalists. The same is true three weeks later at the NHK Trophy in Osaka, after which Betty and Jughead head for Universal Studios along with third-place finishers Isabelle and Francois. Isabelle snaps a picture of Betty and Jughead toasting with their glasses of butter beer, Betty’s face scrunched up in laughter as droplets of Jughead’s drink end up on her shirt, his hand reaching out apologetically as he laughs, too. Isabelle forwards it to her, and Betty posts it to her Instagram with the caption _not always graceful_ , tags Jughead, and pockets her phone again.

Later, on the ride back to their hotel, her head against Jughead’s shoulder and her eyes heavy with tiredness, she takes her phone out and finds that the photo has thousands of likes and that the vast majority of the comments are either emoji faces with hearts for eyes or some variation of _SO CUTE!!_ Val has commented, too, which Betty supposes is his duty as her kind-of-sort-of boyfriend, even though they only squeezed in a single date between her two grand prix competitions, at the end of which she didn’t push his hands away when they skimmed up to just beneath her breasts but did turn her head so that his kiss landed on her cheek. _Looks like fun,_ he’s written, _can’t wait to see you when you’re back in Montreal._

Beneath his comment, a follower Betty doesn’t know has tagged a couple of her friends and written _um who’s that??_ with arrows pointing up at Valentin’s username. Beneath _that_ comment, someone else she doesn’t know has written _@bugheadforthewin15 people can have friends, relax._ Betty blinks at both of those comments in utter bafflement, straightening up, suddenly much less tired.

“Everything okay?” Jughead asks, touching her thigh briefly before he pulls his hand back into his own lap.

She nods, and then shrugs, and then shakes her head. “I hate feeling like… we’re always under a microscope. If it’s not the judges, then it’s…” She gives her phone a little wave. “People.”

“What are people saying?” he asks, his brow furrowing, and she watches his fingers tense and flex, like he’s going to hop on a plane and fly to the States to punch whoever’s offended her.

“Nothing _bad_ ,” she says, locking her phone so that the screen goes black. “I just wish… ”

His voice drops low, so low that she can feel his words reverberate in her belly. “You wish what?”

“I sometimes wish we’d kept it safer,” she whispers. It’s not like they ever explicitly advertised their relationship, but four years later she knows they could have been more proactive about guarding their personal lives, that asking people to pay attention to their skating and only their skating after a conversation about their togetherness had already begun was a pipe dream, and they were foolish to think it was possible. She swallows, feeling Jughead’s eyes bore into the side of her head. “You and me.”

Jughead exhales slowly, and sneaks a peek over at Francois and Isabelle, who are crammed alongside them into the back of the car. They’re speaking in rapid-fire French, their Parisian accents harder for Betty to understand than Quebecois ones, their heads bent over Francois’ phone. She determines that they’re probably not eavesdropping.

“I know,” Jughead says to her, and he does; he always knows, thanks to his deep familiarity with the inner workings of her mind. “But we were eighteen, Betty, and in the middle of what was the biggest season of our lives, and what happened… it had been building between us for a while.” He meets her eyes and she swallows again, more of a gulp this time - it’s the first time either of them have verbally acknowledged that obvious truth. “Logic wasn’t exactly at the top of our list of priorities.”

“No,” she agrees, fighting off the onslaught of memories that threaten to flood her brain and keep her from sleeping all night. “It wasn’t.”

“But now - we’re good, Betts. Our season is going great. We’re going to the Grand Prix Final. That last interview we did, we kept it about skating. And you…” He coughs like there’s something stuck in his throat. “You have - ” she can _see_ himself holding back the words _Man-Bun_ “ - Valentin now. So.”

She thinks of Val’s comment again: _can’t wait to see you._ She’s been on the other side of the globe for six days now and she hasn’t really missed him, hasn’t felt like he’s someone she can’t wait to see. Her someone is sitting right next to her, his elbow digging somewhat uncomfortably into her hip - but he’s only supposed to be her _someone_ on the ice, and in their partnership. They agreed to love each other as friends, not as more. If Betty wants a romantic relationship, it’s the one thing she can’t turn to her partner for.

“Right,” she mumbles, so softly that sound barely comes out of her mouth.

Jughead sighs at her side, his shoulders dragging downward, like they feel heavy. “We’re both pretty tired,” he says, which she understands immediately to be code for _let’s not allow this conversation to go somewhere it shouldn’t._

“Yeah,” she agrees, turning away and fixing her eyes on the blur of shops and faces outside the car's window. “I’m exhausted.”

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In the month between their trip to Osaka and their trip to Vancouver for the Final, Betty agrees to go see a movie with Valentin on a Sunday afternoon, the only day they have off from on-ice training. He invites her to the latest Marvel movie, which she understands to be a very safe choice, a film nearly everyone wants to see; she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that, due to her rigorous training schedule, she’s two movies behind in the franchise. Instead, she just texts him, _sounds awesome!_ and Googles showtimes. She’s about to suggest the 3:15 showing when a new message from him appears on her phone, _7:40 at Cavendish?_

She chews briefly on the inside of her bottom lip. 7:40 p.m. isn’t the greatest time to see a movie considering that her alarm will go off at 5:20 the next morning, but she can live with losing a couple hours of sleep. The thing about a 7:40 showtime that concerns her is that it’s more romantic, or at the very least less sterile, than a matinee. After a 7:40 movie, it’s socially acceptable to suggest getting a drink. It’s acceptable to invite your movie date over to sip coffee and discuss your favourite characters or the biggest plot holes you noticed. And while Betty has the excuse of training for the Olympics perennially tucked into her pocket, she hardly sees Val, and she imagines that he’d like the time they spend together to shift into something more than conversation followed by an evaded kiss.

 _7:40 works_ she types back slowly, a knot of anxiety beginning to form in her stomach, twisting around the five grapes she ate from her lunch before her phone lit up with Val’s text. She takes a deep breath, adds a smiley face, and sends her reply.

“Betty?” Flora asks from across the table. “Is everything alright?” Her gaze moves from the cell phone in Betty’s hand to her face, like she’s worried that the phone has delivered some sort of bad news.

“Yes,” Betty says quickly, setting her phone down. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just...making weekend plans.”

“Oh,” Flora says, her usual sunny smile spreading across her face. “What are you doing on your off day?”

“Going to a movie. That new… superhero one,” Betty explains, completely blanking on the name of the film.

“Us too!” Flora chirps, tilting her head toward her brother, who’s shovelling brown rice into his mouth determinedly. “It looks so good, right?”

“Right,” Betty says automatically, and then adds, in a voice she hopes sounds casual and not too desperate, “Why don’t we all go together?”

“Sure,” Flora says. She glances across the cafeteria to where Jughead is sitting with Francois. “What time are you guys going?”

“Oh, um - ” The knot in Betty’s stomach, which loosened at Flora’s agreement, tightens back up, suddenly and aggressively. “Jug’s...not coming. I’m going with, um - kind of a date, I guess.”

Flora’s eyes widen almost comically before she manages to neutralize her expression. “I didn’t know you were dating!” she says, her voice soft but her tone excited. “We won’t come; I wouldn’t want to crash anything.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Betty insists quickly. “It’s casual. Just a movie.” There’s still uncertainty on Flora’s face, so she adds, firmly, “Come with. It’ll be fun.”

Flora hesitates for a few more seconds, then shrugs, and to Betty’s immense relief, says, “Okay.”

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Sunday begins at the gym. Betty works to lengthen her muscles, and Jughead works to build his. After two hours of training separately, they come together to do bodyweight squats and lunges and and crunches that leave her body aching in a faintly satisfying way. When their trainer finally announces that they’re done and they can start stretching, she flops back onto her yoga mat, her ponytail looser than it was when they started and skewed to one side of her head. She expects to hear Jughead’s usual melodramatic groans, but she doesn’t. When she turns her head toward him, her sweaty cheek almost instantly sticking to the mat, his eyes are resolutely trained on the ceiling.

A lump lodges itself in her throat, a pain far worse than that in her abs or her quads. _What do you want me to do?_ she wants to demand. _I can’t kiss you like I want to. We can’t put what we want right now above what we’ve wanted forever. Don’t look at me like you’ve wanted me forever. Don’t look at me like that. The Olympics are ours for the taking, if we just want them badly enough. And that means that I have to want someone besides you. Odette says it’s healthy. Odette says she’s never met athletes like us, tied together with a knot so tight you can’t even see it. I have to learn that you can’t be my everything, not alway, not forever. I have to learn that, I have to, and it would tear me apart completely if we didn’t have what we have together on the ice, if I couldn’t love you there, if we weren’t skating so well. God, Jughead, if we fuck this up again, do you think you’d ever be able to hold my hand without remembering it?_

He turns toward her then, like he’s heard what she’s thinking. His eyes are guarded, as if he’s looking at her from behind tinted glass. She licks her lips and tastes sweat.

“Want to get juices from Aux Vivres on the way home?” she asks, hating the way her voice trembles, like she’s fourteen years old again and she can’t figure out the way he makes her feel. Sensing his hesitation, she blurts, “My treat.”

Something shifts in his eyes, like dark clouds finally passing by the sun. “I want tempeh tacos,” he bargains, and it’s ridiculous, but he sort of sounds fourteen, too.

Betty nods, moving up onto her knees and then sinking into child’s pose. “Okay,” she says, to her yoga mat.

They head home with two cups of cold-pressed juice in the cupholders of her car, a box of takeout on Jughead’s lap emanating a smell that almost makes her mouth water. They don’t talk. The radio plays a French station, part of Betty’s constant efforts to help them improve their command of the language.

In their apartment, she takes a shower, wraps herself up in her fluffiest, least-sexy robe, and darts to her bedroom. She rubs moisturizer into her skin, always so dry from all the time she spends in cold buildings, and then braids her hair over one shoulder before checking her phone. She has a text from Valentin confirming what time he’ll pick her up - he hadn’t seemed thrilled when she mentioned that a couple friends from her skating school also wanted to see the movie, so they were going to come along, but he hadn’t been huffy or pouty about it either, which made her feel even more guilty for stifling romance out of the evening - and a reminder notification from her calendar. She opens it up and sees the note she’s written to herself: they owe one of their sponsors some social media content today.

With a quiet but lengthy sigh, she sets down her phone and rubs tiredly at the bridge of her nose before wandering over to her dresser to pick out an outfit that makes her look both casual and cute. After settling on skinny jeans and a deep purple shirt with flounce sleeves, she heads into the kitchen, where she finds Jughead washing dishes, the bubbles in the sink almost up to his elbows. Something about the image strikes her as very sweet, but when he looks her up and down, taking in her outfit, there’s a heaviness in his eyes.

“We owe United Instagram posts,” she says. “Can I see your phone?”

“Yeah, it’s - ” He jerks his chin toward the living room.

She extracts his phone - two iPhone models older than her own - from between the couch cushions and then returns to the kitchen, where she hops up to sit on the countertop and begins scrolling through her photos, which are neatly organized into albums. They did a photoshoot with United back in the summer, so she has a small collection of pictures to choose from.

For Jughead, she chooses a photograph of the two of them on the jetway, one of his feet on solid ground, the other on the first step, his hands at her ribcage supplying balance as she leans down toward him, executing an arabesque with one sneakered foot on a stair, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She captions it _Travel so relaxing we can dance right off the plane. Thanks @united! #partner_ and tries not to let her eyes linger on her smile in that picture and the fact that she can tell it’s about five seconds away from opening up into laughter - Jughead’s fingers against her ribs kept tickling her, and he’s grinning at her in the image, well aware of what he’s doing.

“This good for you?” she asks, holding the phone out to show him the post.

He looks away from the blender blades he’s washing and examines the picture she’s chosen and what she’s written. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat around the word and turning back to his sink full of suds. “Thanks for being my social media manager, Betts.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, as she hits _share_. “It’s a hard job, but someone’s got to do it,” she says as she watches a little blue line track across the screen as the photo uploads. It appears in the feed, and then she clicks over to his page to see how the new post looks among his previous ones.

 _Call me Jughead,_ his profile reads. _I skate sometimes. 14 years and counting basking in @bettycooper’s light._ He’d wanted to write _in @bettycooper’s shadow_ but she’d snatched the phone out of his hand as he was typing and said _no way_ , backspacing those words before she handed it back to him, and he looked at her - he looked at her like she really was made of light, eyelids a little lower than normal, gaze drinking her in.

“Okay,” she mutters to herself, and the picks up her own phone. For her instagram page ( _Ice dancer, daydreamer. Riverdale -- > Montreal. ½ of Cooper & Jones._), she chooses a photo from the interior of a plane, in which Jughead is carrying her down the aisle, her purse looped over his shoulder, while she points ahead with one hand and clutches a boarding pass in the other, like she’s directing him to her seat. _Top notch service!_ she writes as the caption. _@fpjonesiii should join the @united flight crew! #partner #tocompetitionandhomeagain_.

“Done,” she announces once it appears on her feed - notifications pop up before she can even close the app - and slides off the counter. “What are, um - what are you doing tonight?”

“I have a hot date,” he says, deadpan, and Betty knows his sarcasm, can recognize it easily, but still somehow ends up blurting, “Really?”

“No,” he says slowly, sliding her a look that indicates that he’s finding her confusing, or maybe frustrating. “But… have fun on yours.”

“Jug,” she says. It’s completely nonsencial, how his saying that makes her want to kiss him.

He lifts a hand from the sink, dripping with water, his fingerprints scrunched and pruney, and extends it toward her like he’s going to touch one of her dangly, leaf-shaped earrings. He doesn’t: his hand stops mid-air, and droplets of soapy water sprinkle across the tiled floor.

“You look nice, Betts,” he tells her.

She touches an earring self-consciously and murmurs, “Thank you.” They hover there for a moment, neither of them apparently sure quite what to do, before she reminds her legs to move and manages to leave the kitchen.

(At the back of her jewellery box, there are little studs in the shape of crowns, not unlike the beanie Jughead used to wear every single day. A fan gave them to her in Miyagi at last year’s NHK Trophy. She’s reached for them on a hundred mornings, but has never quite managed to put them in her ears.)

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Val picks her up and drives them both to the theatre, and Betty listens as attentively as possible as he tells her about his younger sister getting her acceptance letter from McGill. The way he speaks English, with his French accent curling gently around each word, is sexy - Betty knows this, objectively, but she never quite feels it. When he talks to her, no shudder runs down her spine, no butterflies congregate in her belly.

“You should meet her,” he says, of his sister, and Betty hears her press conference voice say, “I’d love to.”

Flora and Forrest meet them at the theatre. Valentin gives each of their hands a friendly shake and slips into easy conversation with Forrest; apparently they’re both pretty excited about the movie. Flora wiggles her eyebrows at Betty and mouths _he’s hot_. Betty smiles at her, lips pressed together.

“I’ve got it,” Val says as they line up at the concession stand, and he shakes his head and slips an arm around her shoulders when she begins to protest. “Let me, Betty.”

She has to tilt her head back a little to smile her thanks. He’s taller than her, taller than Jughead, even, and she’s currently pressed right into the crook of his arm. It would be easy for him to duck his head down to kiss her, so she asks, “What do you want?”

They settle on a large bag of popcorn and separate sodas. As Val leans forward to speak to the guy behind the counter, he presses his hand against the middle of her back. His touch makes her feel fidgety, but she knows he’d be hurt if she stepped away, and the date is only beginning.

The movie is fine, actions sequences intercut with occasional moments of humour and drama. Betty allows her knee to rest against Val’s for about half an hour, and appreciates the sound of his deep laugh. He seems ready to be her boyfriend, and he’d probably be a good one, but her life is already so full of a different partnership.

They stick around for the post-credits scene and then head out to the lobby. Flora shoots Betty an impressed glance when Val not only gathers up all their garbage, but separates out the recylcing and puts everything in the correct bins.

Betty yawns, covering her mouth, and asks Forrest, “Do you mind driving me home? I’m kind of out of Valentin’s way.”

All three of them look a little surprised. “I don’t mind,” Valentin says, touching her arm. “We can keep the night going for just a little longer… go for a drive, maybe get some coffee…”

She shoots him an apologetic look. “I have an early training morning.”

Forrest clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “We can drive you, Betty. No problem.”

“Thanks,” she says, and catches sight of Flora elbowing her brother, nudging him toward the doors; the two of them walk a few feet away so that she and Valentin have the semblance of privacy. She turns to face him directly and says, “I’m sorry I can’t stay out longer.”

“Yeah,” he says. He’s looking at her strangely, like she’s a mystery he’s trying to solve. “I’m sorry, too.”

“We’ll - ” Her propostion turns into a question before it’s barely begun: “We can hang out after I get back from Vancouver?”

Val nods slowly. “I know a coffee shop that makes great gingerbread cookies.”

“I love gingerbread,” Betty says brightly; she can eat _one_ cookie that’s not in her meal plan. “That’ll be great.”

He smiles crookedly, and it’s cute. She should find it impossibly endearing. It should have her counting down the days until gingerbread cookies.

“Good luck,” he says. “In Vancouver.”

“Thank you,” she replies, and slides her arms around him in a hug. He smells like aftershave, and she keeps her face safely in the vicinity of his chest. “And thanks for tonight, too,” she says as she pulls back. She flashes him her best smile, and heads off to where Flora and Forrest are waiting.

In the car, Flora twists around in the passenger seat to look at Betty, a furrow between her brows. “You didn’t kiss him goodbye.”

“Flor,” Forrest groans, like _don’t be so nosy._

“I’m just _observing_ ,” she tells her brother, still looking at Betty.

“Well - you guys were right there,” Betty says. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m not a fan of PDA.”

Forrest snorts in a way that has her eyes shooting over to him, and she’s about to ask him if he has something he’d like to say when Flora’s quiet voice stops her.

“You _wanted_ to kiss him, though,” she asks, sounding genuinely curious, “right?”

Betty looks outside the window and watches snowflakes fall. “Of course,” she says softly. “Of course I did.”

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Two weeks later, in Vancouver, they win the Grand Prix Final. Luc practically roars in excitement, and they end up smushed in a group hug with their coaches, beaming smiles on all their faces. When the four of them break apart, almost immediately, Jughead gathers Betty into another hug, this one just for the two of them. She presses her grin into his shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt.

“You were fucking incredible, babe,” he murmurs into her ear. He hasn’t called her that, _babe_ , since their relationship somersaulted into romance and messily backtracked into friendship, but Betty reminds herself of how exciting this is, of how easy it is to be caught up in this moment. It’s the reason Sophie is laughing as Luc pulls _her_ into another embrace - figure skating pundits say that the podium at the Final predicts the podium at the Olympics, and Betty and Jughead are on top.

They skate out on the ice to receive their medals with their hands clasped. Jughead goes to offer her a hand up onto the podium, but she shakes her head and says, “Together.” They both take the big step up, and then turn to wave to the cheering crowd.

As they wait for the bronze and silver medalists to shake hands with the officials and receive their flowers, Jughead rests his hand against Betty’s back. It’s exactly the kind of touch that she’s used to: his hand low on her back, the tips of his fingers beginning to curl around her hip, and she relaxes into it. It’s different than how Valentin touched her at the movie theatre; it’s comfortable, it’s _right_. She turns to look at Jughead and finds that he’s already looking at her, his eyes especially blue, like they always are when he’s really happy.

He presses his forehead to hers, and she squeezes her eyes shut, reaching across his body to grab his free hand. Her grip on his fingers is white-knuckled, and she means for it to say, _See, we did it. We made the right choice. We’re winning._

She opens her eyes when she hears the arena applaud for the silver medalists. She hopes that Jughead thinks the tears shimmering above her lower lashes are due to joy.

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For the fifth year in a row, they spend Christmas in Montreal. Betty’s adjusted to it - they had dinner with Elle and Clark and Amie last Christmas Eve, and lunch with her old host parents, Guillaume and Louise, on Boxing Day - but this year she feels a bit of a pang about not being home. If they don’t win the Olympics (or, heaven forbid, if they don’t _make_ it to the Olympics), she’s not sure she’ll even allow retirement to cross her mind. She knows they have it in them, that win, and she promised herself once that she’d get them there - at least for him, if not for herself.

But Polly is engaged, and she’s heard her sister mention babies once or twice, and she doesn’t want to miss the first Christmases of her nieces or nephews. And her friends are moving on with their lives, embarking on new and exciting adventures, almost done with college - she doesn’t want to miss every occasion that they reconvene in Riverdale. And her parents are getting older; does she really want to spend holiday after holiday away from them?

These are the thoughts lingering in her mind a week before Christmas as she sits across from Val in a small, warmly lit cafe, a mug full of low-fat hot cocoa and a brightly-decorated gingerbread man on a plate in front of her. She’s bitten off one of the gingerbread man’s arms, and Valentin is telling her about his family’s Christmas traditions, which involve aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when half the cocoa in her cup is gone, and reaches across the table to squeeze her fingers. “I shouldn’t be talking about this so much. Am I making you sad?”

“No, no,” she reassures him hurriedly. “No, not at all. Your family - they sound great.”

“It must be so hard not to see your own family during the holidays.”

“It is,” she says with a little nod. “But it’s not like I’m alone. I’ve got Jug. And we’re - I’m kind of used to it by now. We’ve spent a few years like this.”

He nods, too, but doesn’t say anything more. He releases her hand, and Betty bites off her gingerbread man’s other arm as Celine Dion’s voice, piped in over speakers, croons, _les enfants, le couer vibrant d’espoir, ont peine à s’endormir ce soir_.

“Betty,” Valentin says a moment later. “I - I’m - ” He pauses, seems to regroup, and then continues, “I know this is a terrible time of year to do this, and I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can see you any more.”

She blinks at him, and then at her armless gingerbread man. “Oh,” she says, and is startled by how small her voice sounds.

“I really am sorry,” he repeats, looking at her earnestly. “You’re so beautiful, and I really like spending time with you, it’s just - ”

“It’s okay,” she cuts in, her voice steadier and not so shrunken now. “I understand, Val. I do. With my schedule, we hardly get to see each other. If I’m not training, I’m travelling, and if I’m not travelling, I’m fulfilling commitments to sponsors. It’s not fair to you.”

His eyebrows do something very odd, and he flattens his palms against the top of the table they’re sharing. “C’est vrai,” he says quietly. “It isn’t fair to me, being with you. But it isn’t because of your training - I can deal with your schedule, Betty. You have a chance at an Olympic medal; I understand what a big deal that is. It’s not that.”

She grips the handle on her mug. “Then what is it?”

Valentin shrugs. “You’re in love with your partner.”

Her eyebrows shoot up so fast and so far that she wonders if they’re trying to merge into her hairline. “Excuse me?”

He looks down at the crumbs left over from his own gingerbread man. “NBC had a live feed of your last competition. I watched it - wanted to be supportive, you know? And I saw how you look at him. How you… _touch_ him.”

“Val, that’s acting,” she explains. “The judges expect - ”

“I’m not talking about when you’re competing,” he interrupts gently. “Or at least, not just that. I’m talking about after, when you hug, and then when you go sit on that bench to hear your scores, and when you got your medals. You look at him like…” He can’t seem to find the words. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone look at another person like that before, not outside of the movies. And he looks right back at you the same way.”

“It’s not like that,” Betty insists, still clinging to her mug like it will save her from this conversation. “When we were younger, _years_ ago - yes. It was...romantic. But that was a mistake. We’re friends now. Just friends.”

Infuriatingly, rather than taking at her word, Valentin just looks at her like he knows something she doesn’t, and then says, “I really do like you, Betty. Vraiment. But I’m not an idiot. And only an idiot would get in between you and Jughead.” He shrugs into his winter coat, takes his wallet out and tucks a twenty dollar bill under his mug, and then stands. “Merry Christmas,” he says, like he hasn’t just made some grand pronouncement about who she does and doesn’t love, and hovers for only an instant before he heads for the door.

Betty stares down at the smile painted on her cookie in icing and feels bile rise in her throat.

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Back at their apartment, Jughead looks up from his book when she walks in. “How was your date?” he asks in an impressively measured tone. He’s wearing his beanie, and she wishes things were simple between them like they used to be, and she could go join him on the couch, pluck that beanie off his head and set it atop her own, and snuggle into his arms without having to explain herself.

“Good,” she says automatically, and then, as she sets her purse on the kitchen table rather than putting it away immediately like she normally does, “We broke up.”

He sits up straight, book falling to the side, his page unmarked. His eyes search her face as he asks, “Are you okay?” He gets to his feet without waiting for a response, moving toward her like he intends to hug her.

Betty takes a step backward. _You’re in love with your partner_ , Valentin murmurs on repeat in the depths of her consciousness. Jughead freezes in front of her.

“I’m okay,” she says. “I am. I think I just need to...be alone for a little bit.”

“Okay.” Jughead reaches out to touch her shoulder very lightly. “Betts,” he adds softly, and she understands exactly what he means: _I’m here, if you need me._

“Goodnight, Juggie,” she whispers. _I know._

It’s only five-thirty, but once she’s in her room, Betty strips off her jeans, t-shirt, and sweater and puts on a set of pyjamas before crawling into bed and pulling the blankets up over her head to block out the light seeping in through her curtains. Her hair is still in a ponytail, and she hasn’t bothered to take any of her makeup off, not even the lipstick that she can literally _feel_ drying her lips out, but all she wants to do is shut her eyes and turn off her brain.

When she wakes up, it’s dark outside her window. Her phone informs her that it’s 9:46. The apartment is quiet, which makes sense; she and Jughead both reluctantly impose a 9:30 p.m. bedtime on themselves.

With a heavy sigh, she hauls herself out of bed and to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. The room smells faintly of Jughead’s bodywash; she wonders if he went for a run this evening.

By the time she returns to her bedroom, she’s far too awake to fall back asleep any time soon. She grabs her laptop and her headphones, slips back into her bed, and opens YouTube. She stares at the page full of recommended and popular videos for several moments before she draws in a deep breath and types _cooper jones gpf_ into the search bar. She sorts the results so that she only sees recent videos, and right there at the top she sees the exact event coverage - NBC - that inspired Valentin to dump her.

She clicks.

The program itself does not surprise her; after all, she lives those steps, those movements, every single day. She watches herself emote, face taut with anguish as she collides with Jughead on the ice, her hand on his heart before he removes it and guides her into a footwork sequence; her eyes glowing with something unspeakably soft when he glides across the ice on a knee, takes both of her hands in his own, and lays a kiss against her knuckles. The story of their free dance is drama with a hopeful ending - the idea, Sophie told them early on in the choreographic process, being that you can’t regret a single moment with someone you love truly, not even the fights, not even the heartbreaks - and Betty thinks they tell it well, ending the program tangled in each other’s arms. That’s acting. That’s a narrative they’ve created with Henri. Valentin doesn’t, or maybe even _can’t_ , understand that.

The music ends, the spectators applaud, the NBC commentators are saying something about _turmoil portrayed with such grace_ and _such an echo, sometimes, of their coaches_ , and Betty expected that they’d be bowing my now, but they’re not. They’re at centre ice, holding one another, essentially still in their final pose, except the time for acting has passed. Now, her fingers are in Jughead’s unruly hair, and he’s scrunching up the fabric of her costume with the force of his grip on her hips, and they’re talking softly into one another’s ears.

“No matter what,” he’d whispered to her breathlessly, and her heart understood. _No matter what happens next, no matter how this ends, I love you._ She’d taken both his hands - and she can see herself doing it now on the NBC footage - and squeezed before releasing one as they turned toward the judges.

They skate off the ice with their arms around each other. Jughead ducks his head to kiss her hair, and she turns her head to smile at him, and -

And that _look_ on her face.

With fingers that tremble oh-so-slightly, she clicks into the search bar again and types _cooper jones skate america_ , and the video that she wants, the one from four years ago in which she’s wearing her pretty, floral dress for the _Amélie_ program, the dress she loved so much before the season fell apart around them, is right at the top of the search results.

She still finds it painful to watch that program, so she clicks to a later point in the video and watches them receive their scores in the kiss-and-cry instead. She watches as they beam at one another and embrace, watches them speak words to each other that are inaudible over the roar of the crowd, recognizes the familiar shape of the word _babe_ on Jughead’s lips.

And then, there it is again. That look on her face.

Betty cries silently, one hand pressed over her mouth so that no rogue sobs will manage to escape, until her eyes are so sore and tired that she drifts off to sleep.

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It rains on Christmas Day.

Betty lets herself sleep in until eight-thirty and then gets up to make pancake batter, mixing in the white, green, and red chocolate chips she’d found at the store. The smell of coffee brewing rouses Jughead, and he joins her in the kitchen rumpled and sleepy-eyed, rubbing a hand over her back in a silent greeting.

She sets plates of pancakes down on the table as he sets down full mugs. They sink into chairs opposite each other and Betty pulls her knees up to her chest as she reaches for her cup of coffee. Jughead’s made it just how she likes it: a dash of chocolate almond milk and some honey. The taste makes her sigh and smile.

“Merry Christmas,” she tells him.

“Merry Christmas, Betts,” he replies, and then drowns his pancakes in syrup like they don’t have Nationals in three weeks.

They open gifts from their families: an Amazon package from Gladys and Jellybean, a card from FP, carefully wrapped boxes from Alice and Hal. The Ohio Joneses send slippers and a Netflix gift card for Jughead, and a book called _How to Live With an Idiot: Clueless Creatures and the People Who Love Them_ for Betty, which is undoubtedly Jellybean’s doing - Betty swallows down her giggles at the affronted look on Jughead’s face. FP’s card says _love you kids_ and contains a cheque for twenty dollars, which Betty tries very hard not to be annoyed by (considering the discrepancy between the American and Canadian dollars, couldn’t he have sent twenty- _five_?), opting to give Jughead’s shoulder a squeeze and stick the card on the fridge instead.

Betty’s parents have sent her what she asked for: a new pair of her favourite lululemon leggings, a journal full of meditative prompts, and texting gloves. Jughead also receives a pair of those - she supposes her parents assume that they’re mostly texting one another - and a cookbook full of recipes that claim to be the key to healthy meals that taste as good as hamburgers or chocolate cake.

“You and me now?” she asks after she’s gathered up wrapping paper and broken down boxes.

Jughead stuffs the last couple bites of his eighth pancake into his mouth and nods, getting up and heading to his room as he’s still chewing. Betty goes to her room, too, and extracts the box she’d hidden under the bed.

They play rock-paper-scissors to see who will open their present first, and Jughead wins, setting his open palm down atop her closed fist; paper covers rock. Betty watches him unwrap his gift with her lower lip drawn into her mouth, nervous that he won’t like what she’s gotten him.

He pulls out the sweater first, hunter green and cable knit. “I think it’ll look really good on you,” she says quickly, like she needs to explain her present. “And it’s so soft.”

“Why do I feel like this sweater is actually for you to steal?” he teases.

“Jughead Jones,” she huffs. “I would _never_.”

“You were wearing one of my sweaters last night.”

She nods and says, innocently, “And now that you have this _very_ nice new one, you won’t even miss it.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “This is a long con.”

She smiles at him and asks, sincerely, “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, Betts. It’s really nice. Thank you.”

Her smile softens, a silent _you’re welcome_. “There’s one more thing in the box.”

Jughead removes the tissue paper from around the silver frame she had engraved for him. It has space for two photos, and she’s chosen one from when they were just little eight-year-olds, mittened hands clasped as they stood on the ice at Penny Peabody’s skating club, smiling hesitantly at the camera, and one taken by a USFSA photographer during practice before the Grand Prix Final, their fingers linked together in a handhold as they look at one another with complete steadiness, total assurance, unshakeable trust. She had the date of the very first day they skated together engraved under the photo of them as children, and an infinity symbol etched into the frame under the picture of their present-day selves.

“I know it’s kind of cheesy,” she says when he’s silent for a moment. “But it’s a - it’s a big year for us and I’ve thought a lot about...what we’ve been through, and how long we’ve skated together, and I wanted to… I wanted you to know how special all these years have been to me. And I hope you’ll - you’ll never forget that.”

He lifts his eyes to her face. “I could never forget,” he says, his voice low. “Not a single minute of it.”

 _Me neither_ , Betty thinks, but she’s scared she’ll cry if she says that aloud, so she points to the picture of them as long-limbed, uncertain kids instead. “Weren’t we so cute? I couldn’t resist that picture.” She pops the locket around her neck open to show him that she had the picture reproduced in a miniature small enough to fit within it as well.

She’s had the locket for a long time, a gift from her sister years and years ago. She doesn’t wear it often, since it’s not suitable for practice, but she fastens it around her neck on the occasional off-day or for a plane ride or on special occasions. Many photos have cycled through it over the years, but there’s something else different about it now, besides the new picture inside it - on impulse, in the shop where she’d purchased the frame for Jughead, she’d asked the man at the counter to engrave the infinity symbol on the back of her necklace as well, onto the side that rests close to her heart.

She doesn’t tell Jughead about the engraving, but she thinks, as he leans in close and takes her locket between his forefinger and thumb to inspect the new photograph, that he must be able to feel it. He settles the necklace back against her collarbone delicately, rough fingertips brushing her skin. Betty looks up into his face, and when she finds his eyes serious and dark, temporarily forgets how to breathe.

“Now you,” he says, sliding a small box across the table to her.

She opens it and finds a golden bangle with circular charms dangling from it. She takes it out and looks more closely at one of the charms only to discover that it has geographic coordinates on it.

Jughead scoots his chair closer to hers and reaches for one of the charms. “This is Riverdale,” he explains softly, tapping his finger against the latitude and longitude. He moves on to the other charms: “This is Syracuse, this is Montreal, this is Osaka, this is Lausanne, this is Vancouver.” He tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he looks suddenly nervous. “And this… is Denver. Whatever happens there, I know it’ll be worth remembering.”

“Juggie,” she murmurs, running a finger over each of the charms. “This is…” Her sentence fades away when she reaches four charms without anything on them, blank circles. “What are these?”

He shrugs, one corner of his mouth turning upward briefly. “Those are whatever comes next.”

She throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, her breaths feeling shaky in her chest. He loops his arms around her in turn and squeezes her back just as tightly. The angle is a little strange for both of them, leaning forward in their chairs, and a moment later he pulls her gently out of her chair and onto his lap. Betty goes without resistance, tucking her face into his neck, the bracelet still clutched in one of her hands.

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Luc and Sophie lent them a set of keys, so in the afternoon, they head for the rink. They lace their skates up sitting together on a bench rather than going into the change rooms.

They need to practice their exhibition number, which is, this year, to R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion.” Betty skates laps around the ice, her heart picking up its pace in a way that fills her with adrenaline, while Jughead gets the music set up.

Wearing a Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer sweater and a pair of worn-in leggings, Betty pours herself into the choreography, arching her back as nicely as possible when Jughead dips her, catching his hands in her own over and over again, letting go every time. She spins on the ice on her own until he stops her with his hands on her waist, and abruptly his mouth is so close to hers. She slips out of his hold, like she’s supposed to.

Still, she can’t help but glance back at him over her shoulder, even though that’s definitely not a part of the choreo. He’s looking right back at her, intensity in his eyes, something strained in his jaw.

Betty feels the music right into her bones as she whirls back to face him, their bodies aligning in a dance hold like they have millions of times before. She meets his gaze only for a moment before focusing her attention on his shoulder.

_Oh no, I’ve said too much._

_I haven’t said enough._

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Nationals are in Phoenix. Betty allows herself enjoyment of the warm weather for precisely five minutes: she tilts her head toward the sun, takes an obligatory selfie with a cactus to post on Instagram, and sets her movie-star-huge sunglasses on the bridge of Jughead’s nose, her laughter high-pitched with nerve as she captures his half-shielded disgruntled face on camera, though she keeps that photo private, safely stored in her camera roll.

Once those five minutes are up, she takes back her sunglasses, puts them on, and feels her mouth settle into a faintly grim, determined line. “Game time,” she murmurs to herself. A beat later, the back of Jughead’s hand taps twice against her thigh; _it’s on._ She looks at him from behind her tinted lenses, and the line of her mouth finds its way into a curve, corners tilting upward.

Her parents are there. His are not. It’s the way things have been at virtually every competition they’ve ever attended, but it still fills her with a flash of anger and hurt on Jughead’s behalf. Sometimes she wants to call FP and Gladys and demand to know why they’re so disinterested in their incredible son. The only thing stopping her, really, is Jughead, whose peace with the state of his relationships with his parents is something she knows he’s worked for, and something she doesn’t want to blow up.

Her mother fusses over the wisps of hair that are escaping from Betty’s updo for long enough that Betty _almost_ starts to doubt the hairstyle altogether - they’re only headed for practice, now, but if it’s really that bad -

“Looks perfect,” Jughead says, his voice kind and complimentary but underlined with steal. Betty turns toward him, prepared to express her doubts, but the words die on her tongue when she sees that he’s not looking at her but at her mother, a press-conference smile in place on his lips and a crystal-clear message in his eyes: _back off._

Alice’s eyebrows arch high. “You do look lovely, honey,” she says, and finally ceases in her efforts to fix Betty’s hair.

( _Only an idiot would get in between you and Jughead_ , she remembers Valentin saying.)

They perform their short dance, waltzing across the ice like they’re in a dream, like their skates are gliding through air. The movement feels innate, programmed so deeply into Betty’s body that she forgets that what she’s doing is choreography. When Jughead dips her in his arms at the program’s close, she hears him breathe, “ _Yes._ ” Their short dance score takes them into first place easily, and afterward, during a post-skate interview, a correspondant from a popular skating blog has honest-to-god tears in his eyes when he tells them they looked like a prince and princess.

They head into their free dance with expectations heavy on their shoulders and hope light in their hearts. As their skates stroke across the ice during their warm up, Jughead murmurs to her, “We’ve given this everything. Let’s leave it all out there.”

And they do.

Their free dance score cements their lead and their position on America’s Olympic team. The crowd goes wild. Jughead lifts her up with the force of his hug and she squeals, “We’re going to the Olympics!” in his ear.

Betty can’t stop beaming. She feels Luc squeeze her shoulder, and hears the emotional lilt of Sophie’s voice as she says _si fier_ , so proud. She looks at Jughead’s eyes, shining with pride and relief and joy, and thinks _this is the best day of my life._

It could only be better if he kissed her.

 

 

 

 

tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it to the end of another lengthy chapter! We'd appreciate it immensely if you'd leave us a comment telling us your thoughts. 
> 
> The wait for the next chapter may be longer than 2 weeks due to other parts of our lives requiring attention of late. Thanks in advance for your patience and understanding. :)


	6. twenty-two (part ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> singsongsung is 99.8% responsible for the delay between the last chapter and this one, and she would like to offer her sincerest apologies. 
> 
> both your writers thank you for your patience and are grateful to you for joining us for this last installment! this fic has been a monster, but it's also been a great deal of fun, and we so appreciate all of your feedback.
> 
> technical note: the writers consider the team skating event to be a totally manufactured, useless item designed to placate either the 2014 russians and/or advertisers/for ratings, and thus it will not appear in this chapter.

_I’m glad I spent it with you._

 

 

They’re still together when he dreams.

Sometimes, they’re still eighteen, and the love never stopped. He’s not too slow. She’s not too fast. Her skate doesn’t hit his, and they don’t fall to the ice. There’s no a conversation in a cramped closet after a devastating loss. They win and then they keep going, toppling competition after competition until finally they reach the Olympics, and they win there too. He likes these dreams.

Other times, they’re older. Sometimes mid-thirties, sometimes early forties, sometimes in their sixties. They have children and maybe grandchildren and they’re happy and blissful. She presses her cheek to the pillow right beside his when he wakes so that the smooth fabric obscures the full view of her face even though it’s clear to her and to him that looking upon her unimpeded is preferable. Lined though her skin is with the love and laughter of time, she's still as beautiful as she was at sixteen, and they still love each other as much. These dreams, too, fill him with light.

In other dreams still, they're twenty-two, and she wakes him up to tell him that she loves him, that she wants to be his, that he’s the only thing that can fill the emptiness inside of her in somehow exactly the same way that she is for him, that she regrets all of it and nothing. And on those nights, when he wakes for real to a room empty of everything except his own self-judgment and overwrought pining, Jughead feels most alone.

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On a Thursday morning in early February, Jughead wakes to the smell and sounds of freshly brewing coffee. He can tell by the wafting scent that it’s been made extra-strong, just the way he likes it. That alone is enough to make his feet swing out of bed, but once he’s pushed them into the slippers his sister had sent him for Christmas, pulled sweatpants over his boxers, and trudged down the hallway into the kitchen, Jughead realizes that Betty has also baked muffins. There are a dozen fluffy-looking pieces of baked heaven sitting on a cooling rack on the countertop.

Across from it, at the sink, is Betty; she’s elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing various measuring cups and spatulas. Her hair is up in its usual ponytail, but it’s a little messier than is typical. That, coupled with the early-morning baking, tells Jughead that she’s stressed.

“Morning,” he greets, leaning against the counter next to her. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Betty glances up at him. “What do you mean?” she asks brightly. “I made banana muffins.”

“Mhm.” Jughead picks one off the cooling rack and begins to pick at it. “I can see that.” He pops a piece of it in his mouth. “They’re delicious.”

“Thank you.” She smiles at him and places a rinsed mixing bowl into the dish drainer.

“Is this regular baking or stress-baking?”

Betty shrugs but doesn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

Jughead sighs and puts his muffin down. “Betts, of course it does.” He walks over to her and rests his chin on top of her head playfully. “I know you’re nervous. I am too.”

She sighs but relaxes slightly against his chest. She lifts her hands out of the soapy water and accepts the dish towel that he hands her. “You don’t seem nervous,” she says quietly.

Jughead wraps his arms around her, hugging her to him. He loosens his grip while she turns in his arms to face him. “That’s just my infamously cool and stoic exterior,” he comments, feeling a familiar rush in his chest when she laughs softly. “Believe me, I am definitely scared as hell. We’ve been working for this for so long, and now that we’re about to leave, and it’s finally here … yeah, I’m fucking terrified. We’re _ready,_ I know we are, but I’m still just as scared as if we weren’t.”

Betty sighs. “I -”

“Betts,” Jughead interrupts, tilting backward to look at her face, “no matter what happens, it’s me and you. Like it always has been. And whatever it is, if it’s winning a gold or coming in twelfth, we’ll be doing it together. So I know it’ll be okay.”

Her brow furrows slightly, but she nods quickly and touches her forehead to his collarbone. “Thanks,” she says softly.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he rubs her back slowly, feeling her already-tense muscles loosen under his hand. After a few silent minutes, Jughead asks, “Wanna know a secret?”

“Okay.”

He kisses the top of her head and softly murmurs, “I hate the Team USA jackets.”

Betty starts giggling and pushes away from him, her eyes sparkling and teeth gleaming as she grins. “Oh my _god,_ I know. They’re so gaudy.”

“Do you think I can get away with wearing my red and black coat instead?”

“No, they’ll probably think you’re Canadian.”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Betty smiles and reaches past him, taking his half-eaten muffin from the counter and lifting to his face. “Eat up, Jug. We’ve got a lot of packing to finish before our flights.”

Jughead obeys, taking the muffin from her hand and practically inhaling it. “Your turn,” he says pointedly.

Betty selects a muffin from the cooling rack and breaks off the fluffy top before popping it in her mouth. “Happy?” she asks, her voice muffled by the food between her teeth.

He wrinkles his nose exaggeratedly at her. “‘Elizabeth Cooper is the picture of grace,’” he says in a faux-British accent, echoing the familiar sentiment of multiple judges. It’s true, of course: she’s fucking _elegant,_ always has been. That’s the only true way to describe her. Still, it’s amusing to see her at ease, even if he’s lucky enough to be the one to bear witness to it the most. “If only they could see you now.”

“I’d definitely lose my skincare sponsorship,” Betty jokes, finishing the rest of her muffin and tossing the paper wrappers from both hers and his into the garbage. “I’ll freeze the rest of those when they’re cool. Now c’mon, go shower, and we can run through the packing list.”

“Oh god, the list,” Jughead echoes, only half-jokingly groaning at the thought. Betty’s had a long and intensely thorough packing list written for their Olympics journey for a while now - she says it’s only officially existed since they’d found out for sure that they’d be in competition for it, but he suspects it’s actually been bandying about in her brain for much longer than that. It even has _shaving cream_ on it - for him, not her - which he thinks is sweet, this idea that she thinks he needs to shave often.

He’s just _evolved._ That’s definitely it.

Betty grins at him. “Get ready to roll socks!” she chirps, then disappears down the hallway and into her bedroom.

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They’re flying out on the same flight as Luc and Sophie, which Jughead is pretty sure wasn’t planned but is welcome all the same. Despite his pep talk to Betty in the kitchen earlier that day, he’s definitely way more nervous than he wants to let on, and the presence of their longtime coaches is really helping. They have, after all, been here before: they’ve sat in these seats with their nerves crunching in their chests and they’ve felt the crippling pressure of Olympic victory on their shoulders. And here they are, still alive, still smiling - and still _together,_ which somehow is what comforts Jughead above all, this idea that maybe he and Betty, after all they’ve been through, can still come out on top.

In all the ways that matter, and more.

They’re seated near the middle of the plane, a few rows back from their coaches. Jughead gets to the row first, glances at the two empty seats, and asks, “Window or aisle?” even though he’s fully aware of the answer.

Like she has every time they’ve flown for the last decade, Betty responds, “Window, please.” He stands back to let her slide in, lifts their bags into the overhead compartment, then plops down beside her.

Jughead shoves a tattered paperback copy of _The Madman of Bergerac_ into the front seat pocket, pulls his earbuds out of his pocket, then turns to Betty with a fixed grin. “Hi, Betty,” he greets, making his voice unnaturally perky. “Aren’t you _so_ excited for this magical experience?”

She raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “Did you accidentally take the wrong prescription this morning?”

“No,” he protests, patting her wrist. “This is my ‘I’m-so-excited’ face. For the media. Did it fool you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Betty responds, shaking her head. “Too much teeth.”

“Too much teeth,” Jughead repeats. “Got it.”

“I’m just _saying,_ ” Betty continues, folding her arms and looking at him pointedly. “When you’re actually excited, you never show that much teeth. It’s really probably a shame, because they’re good teeth.”

“No braces,” he boasts, squaring his shoulders.

“Mm, you have excellent orthodontic genetics,” she agrees, flipping open the in-flight magazine. “Don’t shove it in my face.”

“You never had braces either,” Jughead points out, scrolling through his downloaded music to find a plane-appropriate playlist.

Betty makes a scoffing sound. “I have a slight overbite.”

“Your mouth is perfect.” Jughead finally picks out an album by Sigur Ros, hoping that the unintelligible Icelandic language and vaguely ambient crescendos can help calm him for the relatively short flight. He plugs his earbuds into the top of his phone and glances at Betty briefly, stalling when he sees her face flush pink. Her lower lip has been drawn between her teeth and is slowly escaping, blushing a vibrant red before regulating to its natural fleshy pink colour.

 _Perfect,_ he thinks again. Just like he’d said. He remembers that mouth. He’d spent years trying to avoid remembering how it feels against _his_ skin, but for the past few months he’s been trying not to think about it moving against _Valentin’s_ instead, about it on _other_ places on Valentin, and while Betty and the infamous Man-Bun had broken up a short while ago, the jealous burn in Jughead’s stomach is still smouldering. That’s _his_ mouth, carefully upturned, _his_ lips, pink and sweet, a smile for _him_ and no one else.

“Thanks, Juggie,” she finally says, her voice soft and gentle. She turns toward the window. He watches for a while, fascinated by the minute movements in her jaw as the plane pushes back from the airport and the in-flight demonstration begins. When they land again, they’ll be in Denver, he thinks. And they won’t leave without changing their lives.

Betty’s left hand curls suspiciously around the spine of the magazine, and he knows that she, too, feels the weight of this departure. When her knuckles turn white, Jughead reaches over and places his hand atop hers. She glances at him, a little caught off guard, and he gives her a small smile in return.

“Together,” he tells her.

She nods, her lips curving nervously upward. “Together.”

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Just over four hours into the flight, the pilot announces that they’ve begun their descent into Denver. Jughead’s been here before, for some competition or another; he’s been, actually, a _lot_ of places, far more than his parents could have ever dreamed, he’s sure. Skating has taken him and Betty around the world - to Switzerland, to Germany, to Italy, China, Japan, Russia, all across the United States and Canada and back again. Sure, most of the time he’s usually staring at the inside of a skating rink, but his feet have stood on many different soils all the same.

He’s been to the flats of the prairies, seen the rise of tall cities, and stood in communities with the looming presence of great mountains just beyond their municipal boundaries. Of those, he has a special affinity for the mountains. They remind him in an odd way of the cliffs and rocky outcroppings of the tamed wilderness around Riverdale: only more so, like someone has taken one of New York’s state parks and fed it one of Mario’s mushrooms. Plus, he’s been in his fair share of offices and training rooms that are decorated exclusively with vague motivational posters, the kind that have glib phrases in block font set in the forefront of mountainous vistas. He’s always thought they were useless, though probably well-intentioned. That mountain is not his goal. That mountain is not an ominous figure to overcome, nor a literal hill to die on. It’s just _there_ , so people climb it, like George Mallory had so flippantly remarked of Everest years and years ago.

Jughead gets it. The ice is flat, and Betty is standing there with her skates on, so they dance.

But today, as the rocky mountains appear in the window just behind Betty’s sleeping profile, Jughead has a different thought. The shadow of the range sits behind the skyline of Denver, and today it’s not a looming indicator of all that they have to surmount, nor is it even a simple reminder of so many pointless posters in so many nameless studios and crowded gyms. No; right now, it’s a protector, wrapped around the city like a blanket, ready to watch over not only its citizens but also all of those arriving at its doorstep.

His gaze falls from the window to Betty’s face, and his chest aches.

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They land in Denver without much fanfare. He imagines that the airport, one of the country’s busiest, is like a city unto itself at even the slowest of times, and today is no different. Thousands of people stream around them, athletes and coaches and members of the media from every corner of the globe. They’re all obvious in their national outerwear, Jughead and Betty included. The glow of TEAM USA from their gaudy jackets is unmistakable, and even though he still thinks the design is ugly, Jughead is filled suddenly with an odd pride at having those letters spelled across his back.

A driver takes them to the athlete’s village, where Jughead is ushered into the room he’ll be in for the next couple of weeks: it’s a double room, shared with an American speed skater that he’s met a few times named Charles Ng. He’s nice enough, but it’s his second Olympics and Jughead imagines that he’s not interested in pooling nerves with a first-timer. Jughead’s fine with that; as usual, he prefers that he would’ve been boarded alone, but even with their sponsorships and profile, that’s not always possible. He knows that Betty will find camaraderie in her roommate’s shared anxieties, but he deals with these best either by himself or with his partner, and somehow he doubts that he and Betty sharing a room would be a good idea. They get stared at enough, get talked about enough, have _enough_ rumours floating around about their apparently ‘ever-evolving relationship status’ (the popular term, according to a few blogs he’d accidentally come across), and the last thing Jughead wants to do is let that distract anyone, especially themselves, from this most important event.

After all, all of the bullshit, all the pain and tears and sweat, all the wrenching sobs and the shattered pieces of his heart, have been for this.

Jughead hangs his Team USA jacket over the back of a standard-issue hotel chair, drops his bag on the ground, and flops back on one of the beds. He should unpack, probably; he and Betty are supposed to have dinner with some of their teammates in about an hour, and he likely shouldn’t do it in his grubby airplane clothes. The problem right now is that movement will require effort, and Jughead has little interest in that. He’s been exerting effort for months - years, really - to this exact end, and since he’s finally here, he thinks he deserves a rest.

 _Just a couple of minutes,_ Jughead decides, letting his head sink back into the too-soft pillow. He won’t even take his shoes off, that’s how quick this will be. He’ll close his eyes, have a five-minute catnap, and everything will be -

His eyes are millimetres away from closing when a knock on the door makes them flick open widely again. Charles glances over at him from where he’s been typing on his laptop. “You expecting anyone?” he asks.

Jughead hauls himself off the bed. “It’s probably just my partner, Betty,” he says, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Probably wants to remind me to iron my t-shirts.”

Charles chuckles. “You guys are really as married as they say you are, then.”

If he hadn’t been a foot away from opening the door, Jughead would’ve paused for longer than two seconds to consider Charles’s words. He knows that the public is interested in his non-relationship with Betty; he also knows that their fellow athletes are not immune to curiosity, but the casual assumption with which Charles had executed that statement, the _matter-of-fact_ of it all, has Jughead’s interest piqued, to say the least.

Still, she’s at the door, and he’s not going to leave her anxiously bouncing in the hallway, so Jughead pulls it open.

And it’s not Betty.

“Hi,” the visitor says nervously, securing a handbag over one shoulder.

Jughead stares in disbelief for an inappropriately long amount of time, then weakly greets, “Hi, Mom.”

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Twenty minutes later, Jughead is sitting in a coffee shop three blocks from the athlete’s village, nursing an americano and staring at the last person he thought he’d see at the Olympics: his mother. Beside her is Jellybean, drinking some kind of iced whipped monstrosity that he can’t even pronounce and staring at a guy at a nearby table, who Jughead recognizes vaguely as being one of the hockey players from Slovakia. Jellybean is also an unlikely face, even if mostly just because she’s at the mercy of their mother’s whims, which until very, very recently, Jughead assumed would not include attending the Olympic games.

He’d invited her, of course; there’s an open line, always, but she’s never picked up. There’s always a reason, always an excuse, and while money is a good one, he might only ever do this once. He’d gone with a default they’re-not-coming setting, which has proven him right every other time for the last ten years, and there had been no reason for him to suspect that this would be different, even with their recently rekindled relationship. Still, he’s overjoyed to see his mother and Jellybean. If they’re going to see one major competition of his, ever, in all of the years that he’s skated professionally with Betty, he’s glad it’s going to be this one.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat after a long pause. “What made you decide to come?”

“Didn’t wanna miss you in the Olympics, _duh,”_ Jellybean answers immediately, grinning and thumping the table in a way that reminds Jughead hopelessly of their father. “The fuckin’ _Olympics,_ Jug!”

“Forsythia,” their mother scolds. “Language.”

Jellybean rolls her eyes. “Sorry, I forgot you’re going to care about that kind of stuff now.”

“Jellybean,” she’s warned again, after which point his sister falls silent with a barely-chastened expression.

Jughead chooses not to interfere. Whatever their dynamic is now, he’s not a part of it. Instead, he ignores Jellybean’s swear and stares even more intently at their mother, willing her to provide an answer to the question that Jellybean had spoken to.

Gladys tilts her head and offers Jughead a slightly strained smile. “I can’t just want to support my son?” she asks.

Jughead presses his lips together and looks down at his mug. He knows what fourteen-year-old Jughead would’ve said to her, had those words been uttered years ago, when she’d left. He can imagine the quick snap of the reply he’d give, the venom in his tone, filled with sadness and abandonment and all of the pain that he’d felt afterward. He’d pour it into his response, infuse his voice with all of it and then spew it back to her. He’d undoubtedly feel victorious or at least vindicated somehow, confident in how deserving she was of his anger, until inevitably, probably late one night, guilt would creep in.

So instead, he just says, “You haven’t come to a lot of stuff.”

His mother looks pained. “I know,” she mumbles, sighing. “And to be honest, I wasn’t planning on coming to Denver, either. Sometimes, I … it’s hard to explain, but sometimes it’s like you live in another universe, Jug. One day you were slogging through the snow to the rink to skate for Penny Peabody, and the next day, without me noticing, you were in Finland, or China, or Italy. Jellybean and I still live in a trailer park, Jughead. How am I supposed to relate to that? To a - an _international athlete,_ ” she adds in a near-hiss.

“I’m your son,” Jughead says, looking at her blankly. “Everywhere I go, Mom, if it’s any of those places or it’s fucking Riverdale or Montreal, I’m still your son.”

“That I had no part in raising,” Gladys mutters.

 _That’s not my fault,_ Jughead wants to say. _You’re the one who left._

“Yeah well, you can take the kid out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the kid, and all that.”

She frowns. “What does that mean?”

Jughead sighs and looks at his phone. He’d texted Betty that he was going to miss dinner because of his family’s sudden appearance. She’d offered to accompany him, likely knowing what kind of discomfort he was in for, but Jughead hadn’t taken her up on it. She’s been under enough pressure recently; she doesn’t need this added to the pile. Besides, it’s his family. He can handle it.

(He thinks.)

“It means I’m not a different person,” Jughead tells her. “It means I go to all those places, but I’m still a kid from the south side. When I sleep on the couch at Dad’s it still feels like home. I’ll always be that kid, even in … I dunno, Shanghai.” His fingers twitch on his mug. “If you can’t relate to me, it’s not because I’m too international, or whatever you said, Mom. It’s because we don’t know each other.”

Gladys looks at him for a long moment, her eyes boring holes into his forehead, and finally nods. “You’re right,” she says quietly. She sighs heavily, glances at her simple cup of coffee, then speaks again. “Somebody called me,” she confesses. “A reporter. USA Today, or something like that. They asked me about you, what you were like growing up, about you and Betty, about what it was like raising an ‘international athlete’. And I didn’t have anything to say.”

“We came to support you,” Jellybean cuts in, her eyes defensively looking at Jughead as one of her hands falls onto their mother’s. She says nothing further, but the message is clear.

“I’m glad you did,” Jughead says honestly. He finishes his coffee, sets the mug down a little too hard, then offers a reconciling smile. “So you guys want tickets to the skating programs, or what?”

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His mother and sister are staying at a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city, the best that they could afford given the time they’ve arranged to spend in Denver, so Gladys and Jellybean make their farewells fairly early. Jughead has an early morning filled with rehearsals and meetings and a little bit of training before the evening’s opening ceremonies, but he promises to try to see them at some point anyway, although Jellybean assures him that if he can’t find the time, they’ve got plenty to do with all of the Olympic activities going on around the city. This comforts him a little, that their whole experience isn’t on his shoulders, and on the walk back to his building he even lets his attention turn to the impending arrival of his father, which will be yet another interesting family interaction.

Jughead stands at a traffic light and waits for the crosswalk signal to glow green, watching as the cars turn in front of him. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his sherpa - even though it must be obvious that he’s not a local, he prefers the anonymity that not wearing the Team USA jacket everywhere brings - but he’s getting a little chilly too, and he hopes the light changes soon. He wonders if anyone else around him is cold, or if anyone in the passing vehicles had caught a chill on a night out. He wonders still how much of the traffic is Olympic-related, which brings him right back to thoughts of his parents.

He sighs. Even though he knows that they too have their share of issues, Jughead finds himself somewhat jealous of Betty, whose parents, while overbearing and possibly too involved, are at least predictable.

Finally, the light changes, and Jughead moves hastily across the street, down the block, and into the dormitory building that they’re staying in. He realizes on the stairs up to his floor that he’s missed dinner - a true sin in his world - and already has his phone out searching for local pizza places that deliver when the sight of Betty sitting in the hallway outside his door stops him in his tracks. She’s got her earbuds in, eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall. There’s a styrofoam box sitting next to her, and he can already smell that it has food in it.

The thought appears as instantaneously and as naturally as ever, like it’s always been there, lingering - and it has - _I love you._

“Betty,” Jughead says, surprised. He knows she’d been worried, but she’s had her own stress too, and he’d assumed that she would be in her room resting - anxiously awaiting his text, sure, but at least relaxing, maybe with her face covered with the tasty mud she sometimes puts on it, or with her feet up.

Betty’s head snaps up at the sound of her name. “Juggie,” she breathes, leaping to her feet in a single graceful action. She rushes toward him and flings her arms around his neck, launching herself at him in a tight hug before he can even register what’s happening.

His arms move around her automatically, a reflex built through years and years of her pressed against him, and he lets out a soft “oof”.

“Are you okay?” Betty asks, her voice airy. She leans back slightly and touches her warm palm to his cold cheek. Her eyes worriedly search his. “I can’t believe they just showed up like that.”

He knows she doesn’t mean _they_ ; Jellybean has never been a source of this angst, not in any way that carries blame, anyway. That lies squarely on his mother, at least conceptually, but also on his father and on the sun and stars and sky of the vast universe and probably even on him, too, because while it might only take one spark to start the fire, there is more than one tree in a forest.

Still, the word is there, and it offers him an easy dismissal of her question.

“Jellybean is really excited,” he says by way of answering.

It doesn’t cut it.

“Jug,” Betty says softly, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Jughead sighs and nods. “It was … a surprise, for sure,” he allows, sliding his hands down her back until they find familiar purchase on her hips. She doesn’t seem convinced by his intentionally-even tone, so he squeezes gently and offers a smile. “I’m okay, Betts,” he reassures. “I just didn’t expect to see her. It’s nice that she came. We had a little talk. They’re planning to see some of the events and the stuff around town.”

“That’s good,” Betty nods, her face brightening as she transfers seemingly automatically from protective to supportive mode. “Then … I’m glad they’re here. As long as she - does she know, do they _get it,_ how unfair they - how unfair this has all been?”

Jughead frowns a little. He knows what she means without the clear articulation: unfair to _him._ They’ve been unfair, his parents; that’s what Betty feels. He doesn’t disagree, necessarily, but he’d pick a different word. It _sucks,_ is what he thinks. It sucks that his parents haven’t seen him skate in years. It sucks that he’s been all over the world and he’s seen incredible things and won international championships and the only people present to congratulate him were there first and foremost to celebrate his partner. But it sucked more before, Jughead knows, it sucked when he was nine and being bullied for being an _ice dancer_ and the only thing his dad would tell him was to _man up, Jug,_ when his mom left and his dad was on a bender and his sort-of girlfriend didn’t even really like him, when he moved to Montreal and nobody missed him, when he and the most important person in his life broke up in a closet after losing a major championship and the only way to the airport right afterward was with his fucking coach - it sucked _then._

Now, it’s just a memory, like a prolonged state of being, or something lurking safely below the surface. He can’t edit the past. He can’t go back and place his parents in the stands. He’s an adult now - he’s twenty-two years old. Time has passed. There’s no point, he’s decided, on dwelling on it anymore, but there’s still a warm swell in his heart at Betty’s words and all he can think is that he loves her so goddamn much, this woman who is so righteously indignant on his behalf, who’s spent years as his defender and his protector and he as hers.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jughead answers finally, gently knocking his forehead against Betty’s.

“But they weren’t there,” she whispers, her eyes wet and wide, so close to his. The hallway is eerily quiet, and Jughead wonders if everyone is out somewhere, celebrating their collective arrival.

He shrugs, presses his lips to her forehead, and pulls her into a hug. “You were,” he tells her, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “You’re the only person who’s never let me down, Betts, and you’re the only person I’ll ever need.”

Betty nods against him, sniffles, and mumbles, “Me too,” against his chest before she pulls back. “Um. I brought you some food,” she says, walking back a few feet to his door and picking the styrofoam container up off the ground. “Didn’t know if you’d be eating. Turkey lasagna and caesar salad, I hope that’s -”

“It’s perfect,” Jughead cuts in, smiling at her. “It’s not your homemade tomato sauce and spaghetti, but you know me. Not picky.”

“With your appetite, you’re lucky you aren’t,” she quips, presenting him with the container and letting him smell it. “Your roommate’s not there - I saw him leaving. Want company while you eat?”

Jughead digs in his pocket for his key and slips it into the door. “Sure. You don’t wanna go to bed early?”

It’s Betty’s turn to shrug. She follows him into his room and drops her phone onto a table, then sits down on the edge of his bed. “I’m not promising I won’t fall asleep, but CNN is replaying _Evil Genius_ ,” she informs him, a sly smile curling on the edge of her lips.

“What would I do without you, Betty?” Jughead asks rhetorically, taking off his jacket and then settling back against the pillowed headboard with his lasagna.

She giggles as she climbs up next to him, her feet clad in socks printed with bacon and eggs that he’d bought her on a whim a few weeks ago. “You’ll never have to find out,” she promises.

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Betty’s fingertips strum across his knuckles with a practiced delicacy. She gives him a sweet smile, the specifically rehearsed kind that is a little larger than life so that the judges and the audience will catch it, then speeds ahead of him over the white surface with a sharp twist of her skate. Jughead follows, trying his best to look forlorn - oh no my love has left me - and right on cue, as Lou Reed’s voice nearly cracks and the volume swells, he dips into a half-lunge. Betty’s legs part to accommodate him as he grabs her thigh with a practiced ease, and when he stands she’s rising over his shoulder dramatically, one arm thrown up in a dramatic expression of her grandness. She swings her free leg around his shoulders and turns her body until she’s wrapped around him, then threads herself through his arms like a loom. He weaves her in and out and they begin to spin with the motion of his skates until he reaches seven counts, then he drops one arm and dips her skate back onto the ice.

 _I’m glad I spent it with you,_ Lou Reed croons, _oh, such a perfect day._

They hold hands once she’s righted herself, gracefully moving across the rink to gain speed for their twizzles, and when Jughead passes by the stands where their coaches are watching he catches a glimpse of a grin on Sophie’s face.

“Nailed it,” he says under his breath, the word coming out like somewhere between a sigh and triumphant gasp.

Betty doesn’t speak. Her mouth is instead contorted into a frown of concentrated emotion as her character readies herself for the decision to spend her life with Jughead’s character, but Jughead can tell that she’s heard him. Her eyes crinkle in the corners just a little, sparkling slightly with what he knows is nothing but happy pride, and he smiles back.

 _We might do it,_ Jughead allows himself to think for the first time. This might be theirs.

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After practice, Jughead learns two critically important things that are guaranteed to improve his Olympic experience: the buffet-style mess hall at the athletes’ village is open and functioning all day, and there are a bunch of video game consoles on the third floor of his building. He makes this discovery when Betty leads him into the food area to grab a late breakfast after their run-through with Luc and Sophie that morning, but unfortunately he only has time for two plates of eggs and zero driving time on _Grand Theft Auto_ , because Betty’s parents are due to arrive soon.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Betty tells him kindly, bringing a forkful of egg whites and cooked spinach to her mouth.

Jughead watches her eat the tasteless food sadly. When they win their gold, he’s going to personally spoon feed her an entire cheesecake, he decides. “I’m not leaving you at the mercy of Alice Cooper six days before our short dance.”

Betty gives him a wry smile. “I can handle my mother.”

 _“Nobody_ can handle your mother,” Jughead points out.

“She’s definitely not made to be tamed,” Betty agrees. “But it’d be fine. If you want to go rest, or play some video games, blow off steam before everybody else gets here for the opening ceremonies, it’s okay. It’s just a little tour around the village, and then they’re going to their hotel to get settled.”

“I know,” Jughead shrugs, reaching over to Betty’s plate and picking off an onion she’s discarded. “Your mom was the most intense person in the world when we were eight, competing against Ginger Lopez and that tall kid from Greendale, and she hasn’t exactly chilled out over the past fourteen years. I imagine she’ll be in fine form at the _Olympics._ ”

Betty’s expression is nearly unreadable, but he catches the half-smile before she manages to fight it down. “Forsythe,” she begins, her voice haughty in an unmistakable impersonation of her mother.

He grins. “Elizabeth,” he counters, straightening his shoulders and trying to feel self-important. “Still hanging around with that hoodlum, I see?”

“Yes, mother,” Betty replies, giggling behind her hand. “But you don’t get it. He’s like, the _best_ of all hoodlums.”

“Well, so long as he’s the best,” Jughead mocks, shaking his index finger at her. “We must always be best. Just like Melania says.”

Betty catches his finger and squeezes it. “I mean it, Juggie,” she says, taking on her own tone again. “You’re the best.”

“Finest trailer trash in the entire state,” he deadpans. He grins reassuringly at her when she looks at him, her eyes a bit despaired. “C’mon, Betts, finish up that sadness-omelette and we’ll go find your parents. I have a feeling that Archie and Veronica might get here a little early, anyway. Could give us an easy out. Not that - I mean, if you wanna hang around your parents more, I don’t mean that -”

He stops and makes a face at himself, feeling stupid. Her parents, while overbearing, have been consistent supporters of their career for years. He has his own feelings toward them, particularly her mother - he _hates_ the way that Alice makes Betty feel, the neuroses she’s transferred to her daughter, the thoughts (all wrong) that she’s put into her head - but she and Hal have still _been there,_ been present in a way that his own parents have never been, and he more than anyone else knows that in the end, showing up counts for a lot.

Betty shakes her head at his apology. “They’ve gotta get settled today, they just wanna see where I’m staying and all that. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunity for family time at the rink while everyone’s here.” She takes a deep breath and then puffs it out dramatically, clasping her hands together. “I’m not going to finish this. Ready to go?”

Jughead nods. Normally, he’d try to slyly get her to at least finish her breakfast - they’ve been training so hard, and while they’d both downed protein shakes before practice he also knows that she _needs_ the calories - but today, he gets it. His stomach is also in knots. Today, they’ll walk into a giant arena for the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, and when they leave this city, it might be as medalists.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, standing up. He offers Betty a hand to pull her to her feet. As they walk away from the table and out of the dining room, he realizes that neither one of them is letting go.

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Thirty-five minutes later, Jughead finds himself trailing slightly behind Betty as she leads her parents through the halls of their building. They pass Leanne Wright, a fellow member of their US Figure Skating team, who gives Betty a tight-lipped smile as she hurries past. She doesn’t acknowledge either of Betty’s parents, which leads Alice Cooper to utter, “Well she’s a little uptight” without any indication of self-awareness.

“Everyone’s a little stressed out,” Betty explains, polite as always in her defense of their teammate. “Excited to be here, and feeling grateful of course, but under pressure.”

“Well I’m sure you’ll handle that appropriately,” Alice says with a click of her tongue, stepping through the open door to Betty’s room. “Well, this is lovely.”

Jughead follows Hal into the room. He has, of course, been here before; he’d stopped in to help Betty bring her bags in, met her roommate Diana - another USFSA teammate, one half of a pairs team that they’ve been skating alongside at US Nationals for a couple of years now - and then left to go find his own room. Today, Diana is not here, and even though Betty, like him, has been occupied for the entire time they’ve been here, she’s also somehow managed to unpack. Her clothes, even for training, are hanging up neatly in the closet, and her various makeup accessories are organized neatly on one half of the bathroom sink.

“You’ve got a great view here, honey,” Hal offers unhelpfully, pointing out the window at the Denver skyline.

“It’s nice,” Betty agrees. “You can see right down into the grounds, too - there’s even a little skating pond.” She wrings her hands anxiously, which Jughead takes as his cue.

“So you guys have tickets to the ceremonies tonight, right?” he asks slightly loudly. “Should probably grab dinner beforehand, get there early to scope out the best angles?”

“It’ll be professionally broadcast, Jughead,” Alice informs him. “I’m not videotaping this on my phone. But yes, you’re correct, we’ll need to eat dinner beforehand. Any recommendations?”

Betty glances at Jughead with mild panic in her eyes. He understands immediately; the better part of the last hour has been stressful enough, and he can tell that she’s not thrilled by the idea of having to eat with her parents as well. He nods ever-so-slightly in her direction, then says to Alice, “They have a Domino’s by your hotel, I think.”

Alice looks affronted by the mere suggestion. “Jughead,” she chastises, “that’s -”

“Kidding,” he interrupts, feeling daring in a way that he usually isn’t with Alice Cooper. A few feet away, Betty seems nearly unable to contain a smile. “I really don’t know anything about food in Denver. Betty and I will eat before the ceremonies with Veronica and Archie, but let us know if you find a good restaurant. Maybe we can check it out after our skate.”

Hal looks at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. Jughead stares back. It’s possible that his tone is a _bit_ dismissive, but they’ve only spent half an hour with Betty’s parents and he’s already heard Alice make at least four comments to Betty that Jughead thinks were uncalled for, including a remark about the tint of her foundation, of all things - and so he doesn’t really care much for Alice’s feelings. He and Betty are at the Olympics, _finally,_ after years of trying and incredibly hard work, and he’s not about to let anybody ruin this experience for Betty. Not even her mother.

Remarkably, Alice seems to catch the hint. “We’d better get to our hotel, Hal,” she says in a snapping tone. “Betty, I’ll call you later.” She takes a few powerful strides toward the door, Hal following silently, then stops and turns back slightly. “Have fun tonight,” she offers, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain. “Both of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Betty says softly, lifting a hand to wave goodbye. Her parents walk out, and she turns toward Jughead. “Juggie -”

“I’m sorry,” Jughead says automatically, shaking his head. He takes her hands in his, squeezes, then drops them. “I know I was a dick. But the way that she talks to you, I just - anyway, I’m sorry. I’ll try to play nicer.”

“Don’t apologize.” Betty slides her arms around his waist and gives him a tight hug, which he returns instinctively. “I don’t think I even realized she was getting under my skin until she stopped,” she says into his t-shirt. “It’s like you’re in my head.”

He drops a kiss into her hair. “Just a byproduct of spending every waking moment with me for fourteen years,” he jokes.

“Well, it’s a good one,” she says, pulling back with a gentle smile on her face. “Like … molasses.”

“Molasses?” he repeats.

“Molasses is a byproduct of the process of refining sugar.” Betty elbows him playfully. “You eat enough refined sugar, you should know that.”

 _You nerd,_ Jughead thinks, as a warm press of affection for her rises in his chest. “So me being inside your head is like … molasses.” He wrinkles his nose. “Isn’t molasses really sticky?”

“And sweet,” she adds, grabbing onto his forearm. “Just like you.”

“Words a man lives to hear,” he jokes, drawing his arm back until his palm slides against hers. He rubs the pad of his thumb against the back of hers, pressing affectionately and trying to think of how to explain to her (and realistically, himself too) why he’d taken her hand in the first place, until a buzzing in his pocket interrupts his quiet moment of self-crisis.

It’s a text from Archie, one he’s been waiting for all day. _**Ronnie and I are just grabbing a cab at the airport!**_ it says. **_I think my dad is already here. He brought your dad with him._**

Jughead frowns slightly. His father was already here? He’d been anticipating his arrival at some point in the evening, but had assumed that he’d be missing the opening ceremonies - if, really, he actually came at all. There’s still a part of him that feels very much like _I’ll believe it when I see it_ as far as FP’s presence at any of his skating competitions goes, but perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. Even if ice dance isn’t the most well-known winter sport, Jughead figures that even people like his father who spend most of their time at the Whyte Wyrm know what the Olympics are, and what it means to be competing there.

 _Or,_ he thinks, Fred Andrews had dragged FP there to ensure that he’d make it, which Jughead feels is probably the more realistic of the options. Either way, his father is here, with boots on the ground, in Denver.

“What’s going on, Jug?” Betty asks quietly, squeezing his hand and peering over the edge of his phone.

Jughead shakes his head and clears his throat before he attempts to speak. He feels oddly emotional and altogether unprepared for it. People have actually come to see him compete. They’ve traveled hundreds of miles. They’ve booked _hotels._ His mother, his father, his sister, his best friend - they’re all here. For _him._

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one that’s overwhelming in a way he’d never expected.

“They’re here,” he tells Betty.

“Who is? Archie?”

He swallows. “Everyone.”

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Because Jughead and Betty have to be at the main venue around the time they’d typically eat in order to prepare for the opening ceremonies, they’ve planned for their supper with Veronica and Archie to be a fairly light (and early) meal well in advance of their call time. Jughead, at least, has the personal expectation that there will be additional food available to him after events of the evening. Even if nothing is provided, he’ll find _something_ \- after all, man cannot live on a 4:00pm salad alone. That’s not _food,_ not entirely.

(“It’s really more of a _lupper_ ,” Jughead had joked to Betty, who’d then given him a look of pure exasperation.)

She and Jughead had picked a small cafe that was both close to Archie and Veronica’s hotel and unlikely to attract a lot of the types of fans that might recognize ice dancers. According to Google, it serves mostly soups and sandwiches, perfect for the level of excitement and pre-ceremony nerves that are currently churning Jughead’s stomach. He’d been counting on his hunger being satisfied just enough to not think about it when they walk across the arena floor with the rest of Team USA, while still leaving room for later, and this cafe in particular had seemed well suited.

What Jughead _hadn’t_ counted on was Veronica’s attempt to make this meal into an early celebration of a victory that they have yet to earn. She and Archie are somehow already there when Jughead and Betty arrive, despite arriving in the city very recently, and when they walk into the restaurant Veronica stands up with an actual bouquet of flowers in her arms.

Jughead stares at her as she passes it to Betty, who accepts it with a surprised but perennially gracious look on her face. “Where did you even get flowers between here and the airport?” he asks.

“I have people,” she tut-tuts.

“This is really unnecessary,” Betty begins to say, “we haven’t even -”

“Nonsense,” Veronica says dismissively, sitting back down at the table after giving both of them a quick hug. “You guys are at the _Olympics_. That’s crazy-insane. You deserve all the celebrations, no matter what.”

For his part, Archie greets Jughead and Betty with brief embraces, then sits down beside Veronica with a sheepish and somewhat overpowered look on his face, as if to say _sorry, I can’t stop her._ Jughead rolls his eyes at him and then tugs the menu toward himself, scanning it for the best option. Beside him, Betty turns to place the bouquet of flowers between her and Jughead’s chairs, and in doing so mutters, “I think she’s trying to jinx us.”

Jughead snorts, knowing she’s not serious, and immediately glances at Veronica. She’s looking at them, eyes narrowed but sparkling with interest, unexpectedly not annoyed at being interrupted.

“Anything you’d like to share with the class?” she asks brightly.

“No,” Jughead tells her. He stares at her, almost daring to her to make the comment that he can just fucking tell is on the tip of her tongue. Veronica stares back, still smiling somewhat mischievously, obviously not as thrown by his challenge as people typically are. Still, he doesn’t break; he and Betty get this shit from _everyone,_ from people on the street and teammates and strangers on the internet, and they don’t need it from their friends. The vast majority of comments, he expects, are from people who have no idea about the true extent of their personal history.

Jughead’s not even sure what Archie and Veronica know, realistically - even if he were the type of person to share his every moment with Archie, things had felt too raw to rehash afterward, and he’d never told Archie everything. There was no way - there’s _still_ no way - to explain what had happened between them, to detail how he’d felt when he was with her and how he’d felt when he was without her. Even now, he can’t relive it, and he doesn’t want Veronica’s likely well-intentioned teasing to jar either he or Betty into a headspace that they can’t manage before the most important competition of their lives.

Eventually, Betty briefly touches a hand to his bicep, a sign that Jughead know to mean _relax, it’s okay,_ and so after a few more moments of his attempt at intimidation, Jughead swallows and drops his eyes to the menu again.

It doesn’t work.

Veronica leans forward, her lips parting into a teasing grin. “You guys are so _married.”_.

“Yeah, well, you spend eighteen hours a day with somebody for nearly fifteen years, and maybe even you would start picking up on non-verbal cues,” Jughead says, annoyed.

“Jughead,” Archie says, carrying a slight edge of warning in his tone.

“What is everyone going to order?” Betty interrupts in a bright voice. “The chicken salad looks really good, doesn’t it?”

Beneath the table, Jughead can feel her knee touch his. He glances over to see her looking at him with a slight and silent plea in her eyes. He bites his lower lip, fights the urge to sigh heavily, and mutters, “Sorry. We’re just - nerves.” He doesn’t bother looking at Veronica and instead picks out a BLT from the menu. “I’m getting this, Betts.”

“With extra bacon?” Veronica guesses.

Jughead raises his eyes to her face, which is stuck somewhere between amusement and apology. “Yeah,” he says. “Am I that predictable?”

Archie laughs. “Uh, yeah, bro.”

“So are your guys’ host families going to be able to make it out to see you skate, too?” Veronica asks, now back perusing the menu.

“We got them tickets for the two events, yes,” Betty replies, her leg relaxing next to his with the turn in conversation. Jughead reaches underneath the table and squeezes her thigh, knowing she’ll catch his wordless apology to her as well, and is rewarded with her hand pressed onto his. “So they don’t get here for another couple days.”

“That’s really nice of them to come.”

Jughead nods in agreement. “Yeah. But they did see a lot of our shittier years first-hand, so it’s nice for them to see us at this level now.”

“The whole Olympic period is a long time for them to come, though,” Betty cuts in. “They’ve got kids who have school and that kind of thing. You guys are lucky that you’re able to stick around for so long!”

“I’ve been planning around this for four years,” Veronica jokes, waving a hand as if to dismiss any surprise at their prolonged presence, and Jughead thinks, _me too._

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At first, Jughead is afraid that they won’t be able to see anything. They’re herded into groups and stand around with the other American athletes, waiting for their cue, while the crowd roars and claps in anticipation. After a while, it becomes clear that not seeing anything won’t be an issue: there are screens _everywhere,_ high above the stadium and inside it, so prominently featured that Jughead’s pretty sure the whole of Denver has a great view.

Once that concern abates, he begins to worry about the weather. They’re wearing their Team USA jackets, and they have hats and gloves and scarves, but the wind is particularly biting considering that the internet had promised him the blessing of a warm chinook. He feels okay - his cheeks are just a bit cold - but Betty is dancing on the spot beside him, her pale cheeks now a rosy red colour. They have to wait for a while before the parade of nations: first, there’s some kind of artistic presentation. Jughead’s seen them all from years past, and he’s curious whether Denver will emulate the nation-building presentation of Beijing, bring forward its most famous citizens to perform like London, or echo Salt Lake City and embrace its First Nations heritage for a round dance.

He doesn’t have to wait too long to find out. After the requisite raising of the Olympic flag, the event begins, as do most large stadium events that he’s seen, with quite an overt assertion of American patriotism. There are fighter jets from nearby military outposts, which Jughead considers to be an odd nod to the tenets of the military-industrial complex that underpins Colorado. There is a blessing from a local Aboriginal chief. And then, of course, there begins a short lineup of famous American pop artists signing a variety of songs. It culminates in a grand multi-artist cover of “Rocky Mountain High”, during which time Jughead _swears_ he can almost smell marijuana - but he must be mistaken, of course, or at least it’s not coming from any of the athletes. They know how hard it’s been to get here; nobody would jeopardize it so frivolously.

And then, suddenly, it feels infectious. His arms wrap around Betty, who’s standing in front of him gleefully singing along: _“I know he’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly.”_ She leans her back into his chest without even turning around; like he is with her, she’s familiar with his touch. They sway together, Jughead almost humming along as his teammates lean into the moment too. The song ends, and President Clinton takes the stage alongside the International Olympic Committee president and the Denver Olympic organizing committee chair. They all give speeches, the screen occasionally flashing both to the President’s husband and to Vice President Warren in the stands, and the arena cheers.

Then the Grecian team begins to march forward, and it becomes a blur. The American team, as the hosts, wait to the end. He spots Flora and Forrest up ahead with the Canadian team and is struck with an odd warmth in his chest that he can only interpret as pride. Pride in them, their oldest friends in the sport, for qualifying; in himself, for doing the same; and in Betty, for being talented enough to drag him along with her.

When they walk through, it’s deafening, and he forgets how to breathe. There are thousands of people there - _“tens_ of thousands,” Betty reminds him - and so many more millions watching at home. He keeps one gloved hand firmly clasped around Betty’s as they walk through and wave at everyone, following their flagbearer proudly. Jughead wonders if his father is in the stands, but the thought only stays fleetingly before they take their place with the rest of Team USA and watch as Dorothy Hamill and Brian Boitano, hoisting the Olympic torch, light the cauldron aflame.

Betty’s body hits his unexpectedly, her hand slipping from his to wrap around the back of his neck while her other arm tugs at the back of his jacket. “We’re here, Juggie,” she says into his ear. It’s not a whisper, but it’s so loud in the arena that the words are only for him anyway.

He nods, wordless in his response, and squeezes her tightly. It takes hours, but the experience is condensed into seconds in his memory. _“I hereby declare the opening…”_ rings somewhere in one of the back corners of his head, and there are rotating images of his teammates’ smiling faces mixed in with the broad view of the stadium, but most of the space is taken up with _this,_ with the pull of his collar fisted in her hand and the feeling of her cold lips accidentally brushing against the shell of his ear.

It feels like gold.

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They’re in an elevator in their dormitory-style building, having just arrived back at the athletes’ village, when Jughead’s phone buzzes.

Betty feels it before he does. She’s leaning against him in the elevator, her head on his shoulder and her fingertips hooked onto the outside pocket of his Team USA jacket, clearly in the same sort of post-adrenaline haze that he is. Their extremities are thawing out a little, the telltale tingling in his fingers and toes alerting him to the cold weather they’ve just left, when she digs her hand into his pocket and hands him his phone.

“It’s vibrating,” she says somewhat slowly, stifling a yawn. “I told my parents I wouldn’t see them tonight.”

“I figured that too,” Jughead replies, taking his cell and swiping his thumb to unlock it. There are other people in the elevator - some of whom he knows because they’re either other figure skaters or share sponsors with he and Betty, and some of whom are essentially strangers - but he doesn’t care tonight about maintaining their usually careful public air of separation. Being here, after the opening ceremonies, with nothing but mere days of last-minute practice and preparation between now and the time of their two performances, is making him feel confused in what he thinks is a really excellent way.

The buzzing, it turns out, is a text from his father. **_Fred and I got to town. Saw you and Betty on TV at the opening ceremonies. The TV said you were one of the surest locks for gold for USA._**

Jughead swallows at the message. He’s heard that too; _a shoo-in_ , some pundits have said. He gets why: they’ve got quite a record going in, having won essentially everything at least once _except_ the Olympics. It’s logical. Hell, he even feels it too. They should win. It had _just_ felt golden. Their practices have been solid, their routines are better than the competition - things _should_ work out. But he’s been on this side before, too; they should’ve gone to the Olympics four years ago, in Beijing. That was for sure, too, until everything had fallen apart - so forgive him, he thinks, if he’s a bit anxious about the sentiment.

“Your dad?” Betty guesses, pressing the knuckle of her index finger into his side playfully.

He blindly reaches for her hand and grasps it, tugging it away before she has a chance to tickle him like he knows is her goal. “Yeah,” he confirms, just as the elevator stops at their floor. He steps out and looks up at her from his cell phone. “Hey, I’m gonna go change then I’ll stop by your room, and maybe we can grab food somewhere?”

She nods. “Sounds good.” She gives him a brief look of concern. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Jughead tells her honestly. “I just need my beanie.”

Betty smiles through a small laugh. “Kay. I could use a brush through my hair too,” she says absentmindedly. “See you in a sec.”

Jughead nods and turns away, walking in the opposite direction from her. He’s trying to think of a way to formulate an appropriate response to his father, one that balances his need to be polite and encouraging about the fact that he’s actually shown up in the first place with his desire to express how annoyed he is that _Archie_ already announced his presence hours ago, and it’s this preoccupation that he assumes is why he doesn’t notice another Team USA athlete walking beside him.

It’s nobody he recognizes, but the guy smiles at Jughead when he finally notices his presence and nods his head back toward the elevator. “They don’t let you and your girl stay in the same room?” he asks.

It’s a question that Jughead would be suspicious of, if it weren’t for the guy’s obvious sincerity in asking. This, too, has happened to he and Betty many times, though usually not around other athletes that they see on a regular basis. Most of their fellow USFSA team members like to tease them, but broadly, he thinks they know deep down that it’s not a relationship that can be easily explained.

Jughead shakes his head. “We’re not - she’s my skating partner,” he explains.

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Really? You two seem so - I dunno. Sympatico.” He shrugs at Jughead. “Is it one of those we’re-like-siblings things? Because she’s really hot, and I -”

“It’s not one of those things,” Jughead interrupts, annoyance creeping back into his tone. _I fucking know,_ he wants to say, _I know everything about her,_ but he doesn’t. The guy raises his eyebrows silently, as if to say _sorry, bro,_ then turns down the hallway toward a room a few down from Jughead’s.

Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Jughead pushes through into his own room, pulls his Team USA jacket off, and flops onto the bed for a brief reprieve. He quickly taps out a reply to his father.

_**Glad you made it. Betty and I have a pretty rigorous prep schedule before our short dance but we should try to have dinner tomorrow or something.** _

He lays with his back on the mattress for another brief moment before he rolls up, quickly changes into a warmer sweater and jeans, then grabs his beanie - the grey, tattered one he’s had for years, not his Team USA hat - then sets off back toward Betty’s room.

She’s waiting for him outside of it already, having also changed into a soft-looking blue sweater and a pair of grey leggings that are truly unkind for him to see her in. “We owe American Airlines an instagram post,” she says by way of greeting, grimacing at him apologetically. “I forgot earlier.”

“Ugh.” Jughead wrinkles his nose. “Okay, let’s go down to the buffet and get food, then look at pictures.”

Betty falls into lockstep beside him. “What do you have left for your macros?”

“Still need 30 grams of protein and 1200 grams of pizza.”

She laughs softly and looks at him with amusement sparkling in her eyes. “1200 grams of pizza is probably really not that much pizza. But I accept your new macro targets.”

“Fine, 10,000 grams of pizza,” Jughead corrects. “I don’t want to undersell myself. I’m a growing boy.”

“I don’t … think that’s true anymore,” she giggles. “Unless you’re talking about growing outward.”

Jughead pats his stomach. “I thought you liked my dad-bod,” he teases.

Betty rolls her eyes. “It’s not a dad-bod and you know it.” She reaches out and taps his stomach, her short nails not quite able to scratch through his thick sweater. “There are abs under here somewhere.” She moves in playfully, ostensibly going to lift the hem of his shirt, but he catches her hands before she can.

“Don’t start this game,” he warns through a wide grin, circling them so that her back is facing the wall in what’s now an empty hallway. Jughead wonders where all of their fellow athletes have gone; perhaps some are down getting food, like they’re about to, but it’s also likely that still others are with family and friends. _Or asleep,_ he thinks, if their events are the following day.

“What game?” Betty challenges, expertly tugging one of her hands from his grasp and pushing up at his shirt.

“You little -” Jughead’s jaw drops in mock outrage, but a second later he grabs her around the waist, aiming to tickle her instead. She folds, attempting to evade him, but he uses his strength and height advantage to lift her anyway. He swings her with intention and catches her behind himself, holding her with one hand around her ribcage and another just above her knees, her back arched carefully across his.

“Juggie,” she giggles breathlessly. “Let me down!”

He laughs and keeps walking down the hallway instead, nodding politely at Leanne Wright when she comes across them for the second time that day. This time, instead of giving a brief smile, she raises an eyebrow at them and comments, “You guys are too adorable.”

“I know I am,” Jughead calls behind him as they pass her. He stops at the elevator. “Betts, press the button for me, will you?” He rotates them so that she can reach, watches over his shoulder as she dutifully calls for the elevator, then finally drops his left side along with hers until her feet touch the ground.

She stands up, twisting out of the embrace with ease, and gives him a somewhat tired look as she adjusts her clothes. “That felt unnecessary.”

The elevator arrives and Jughead walks into it with a shrug. “You used to love when I carried you around everywhere,” he jokes. “How times change.”

Betty follows him. “I tolerated it,” she corrects him, but the smile in her eyes says otherwise. “You told me you used to do it because you got to touch my ass.”

“I mean, that’s _still_ my favourite thing about lifts.” Jughead’s phone buzzes again, and he digs into his pocket to grab it.

 _ **Sounds good,**_ his father has responded, followed by an unexpected _**I’m proud of you, kid.**_

Jughead chews his bottom lip as he taps out a quick _**thanks**_. He turns to Betty, intending to fill her in on his father’s messages, but she’s already looking at him with an expression that’s a mixture of compassion and mild anger, as is her general attitude toward his father. She knows, he realizes; he doesn’t have to say anything.

And then, as she takes his hand, he realizes that when it comes to her, he’s never needed to.

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One of the challenging parts about elite international competitions, in Jughead’s experience, is that their success - and the success of athletes who attend them - hinges nearly entirely on logistics. When is their ice time for practices? What is their schedule in between? Do they have adequate gym facilities and appropriate spaces to talk to their coaches? And of course - is there any downtime?

The answer to the last question, typically, is no. At the Olympics, if they’re not training in some manner, they’re cheering on their teammates at one of the preliminary solo events, or they’re meeting in Luc and Sophie’s room with Odette on the phone to discuss their pre-competition mental states, or they’re trying desperately to get adequate rest. Despite the fact that they’re in a beautiful city with world-class facilities, until their specific competition is done, they don’t actually have that much free time to deal with friends and family, or otherwise. The day before, Jughead had suggested to his father that they meet for dinner, but it had mostly been out of habit. Food was something to do instead of awkwardly staring at each other. It provided a built-in distraction.

It’s also, Jughead is learning, really the only free time he and Betty have for the next little bit anyway.

It’s this reason, and probably a bit more white-knighted let-me-save-you-from-this sentiment, if he were willing to self-reflect enough (he’s not) that has Jughead getting an Uber to take him to meet his father for dinner, solo. Betty only has so much time with her parents and he with his, and given that moments with his dad can be testy at the best of times, he figured it’d be easier if nobody else was unnecessarily subjected to what might not be the classic _I’m-so-proud-of-you_ dinner that he sees other athletes having all over town.

He hops in the car that pulls up, says his name to the driver, then receives the familiar refrain: “Is that _really_ your name, bro?”, before sinking into the backseat in silence. Thankfully, this Uber driver isn’t the type that seems to really want to chat, and Jughead lets his mind wander as they drive through the streets toward his restaurant of choice: a greasy diner not unlike Pop’s that has excellent Yelp reviews.

His father is miraculously there already when Jughead arrives, something he’d never expected to see. These weeks, it seems, might be full of surprises.

“Hey Dad.” Jughead sits down across from him in the booth. His back hits worn, cheap leather seats with old cushioning, and he’s automatically transported back to Riverdale.

“Hey kid,” FP greets. “You look good. Strong.”

Jughead’s about to respond when a waitress comes up to take their drink orders. He asks for a black coffee, his standard at these types of establishments - he hopes it’s bitter, old, and burnt, just for old time’s sake - then replies, “Yeah, we’ve been training pretty hard.”

“It shows.” FP stares at the glass of water that he’s been nursing. It’s in a plastic cup, hard-sided, the kind that’s ugly but that will almost definitely survive the nuclear blast. Pop uses those, too; Jughead wonders if there was a sale at whatever roadside-diner wholesaler that all of these types of places almost certainly use.

“Well, thanks.” Jughead also nods his thanks to the waitress who brings him coffee. He glances at the menu only briefly and orders a burger. FP does the same, then sits back and says nothing, clearly waiting for Jughead to speak. So he does, clearing his throat and leaning slightly forward over the table. “So, I’m glad you came, Dad.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Well, you missed almost everything else,” Jughead says before he can stop himself. He winces and watches as his father’s face crumples briefly and then recovers.

“I deserved that,” FP mutters. “Look, kid, I know I’m not … I know I didn’t do great. But just because I’m a fuck-up doesn’t mean I’m not proud. I _am._ My kid is in in the fuckin’ Olympics!”

Jughead smiles at that despite his general malaise. “It’s all thanks to Betty,” he says.

FP shakes his head. “Nah. I mean, she’s great too, but I watched a bunch of videos of you guys that the TV was playing, and - I dunno, Jug. The two of you can do something on that ice that I can’t even dream of.”

Jughead looks out the window. Across the street, an older couple is walking toward a movie theatre whose marquee is advertising a re-showing of _Casablanca._ He has an urge to go watch it; it’s one of his favourite movies of all time, after all. Maybe Betty will be up for watching it on his laptop when he gets back to the village.

“We’ve worked at it for a long time,” he finally says.

FP nods slowly. “Since you were eight. Who would’ve thought that Penny Peabody being a bitch would lead to this, huh?”

“Yeah, who would’ve thought,” Jughead echoes. “So Dad, what’s going on with you?”

“Same old, same old.” FP stretches backward in the booth with his arms over his head, ignoring the disdainful look of the woman behind him whose space he’s invading. “Working for Fred, that’s goin’ okay. Serpents are doing fine.”

“Nice of Fred to drive you.”

“He wanted to make sure I’d actually get here.”

Jughead lets out a breath so quickly it almost feels like a laugh. “I wondered if that was why.”

“Guess he knows me,” FP says. “Been a fuck-up so long that even my friends know about it.”

“Pretty sure Fred’s known longer than any of us,” Jughead informs his father, dropping his eyes to check his phone. There’s a message from Betty, but it’s just a picture of her plate - boiled chicken breast, sauteed spinach, and a solitary piece of seven-grain toast - along with the caption _**‘sadness’**_. He smiles at it, taps out a quick reply, then glances up to see his father watching him with interest.

“Betty?” FP guesses. “You guys still dating?”

Jughead swallows. “No.” There’s no use even pretending that they hadn’t once been together, like he does sometimes for people who might’ve known but not quite been fully privy to it. His father, more than anyone, had had a front-row seat, thanks to him walking in late one night when Jughead and Betty had been asleep on the couch post-sex. “We broke up after a few months. It wasn’t working.”

He hopes the answer is simple enough to avoid any follow-up questions. His father has never been that perceptive, so there’s not that much of a risk, probably.

But then FP says, “That’s bullshit, Jug.”

Jughead’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I said that’s bullshit, boy.” FP places his forearms on the diner table and leans in closer to Jughead. “Lots of shit doesn’t work in this world, kid, but the one thing that always has is you and Betty. Shit, you’ve had those eyes for her since you were nine years old, the same ones you’ve got right now looking at your phone. You’re in love with her.”

Jughead looks away, staring hard out the window, not sure how to respond. Anything, it seems, would be a confirmation.

“You’re _still_ in love with her,” FP amends, sighing and then leaning back in his seat to allow the waitress room to set a burger in front of each him and Jughead. “Thanks,” he says, then pops a fry into his mouth and adds to Jughead, “Don’t fuck it up, Jug. Don’t end up like me. You’re living your dreams here, but I’m sure skating at the Olympics wasn’t the only one you had.”

A flash of blonde hair swims in front of Jughead’s eyes as he closes them, followed by a bright, happy green, the same colour as her eyes.

“No,” he agrees, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It wasn’t.”

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The rest of the week goes by quickly. Jughead knows that he should pause and let the rush of Olympic fever wash over him, but there’s simply no time. He gets up early, goes either to the gym or to the rink, depending on their scheduled training time, and runs through the finer points of the short dance with Betty. Sometimes they eat before and sometimes it’s after, but there’s always at least one protein shake for him to down before the day begins. It’s not enough; Jughead’s usually starving by the end of practice, even if they’ve had eggs and toast, and he nearly always drags Betty for a second meal afterward.

In the evening, there’s usually an event to attend - there’s a certain expectation, at least in the figure skating community, that everyone attend the skating events to support their teammates - and if there’s not, there’s slightly awkward dinners with his mother, his father, or her parents. The better days have Veronica and Archie making some kind of appearance. They set them at ease in a way, despite Veronica’s too-early celebration of an achievement they haven’t had yet; it’s comforting, somehow, to have people around them who aren’t overly invested in their success like her parents, who don’t carry a disproportionate amount of baggage like his, and who aren’t dealing with their own nerves like their teammates.

All of the days end with him and Betty falling asleep, sometimes in her room and sometimes in his, until their respective roommates return and the evening is over.

It’s what he wants it to be.

They’re scheduled to perform their short dance seven days into the Olympics. On the sixth day, when Betty appears at his door in the morning, she has a giddy look on her face. It’s far too much excitement for the hour - six-fifteen - and he lets out a sigh before she can even speak.

“It’s six in the morning, Betty. What’s this for?” he asks, pointing at her. “This … _glee.”_

Betty ignores his curmudgeonly behaviour, her grin only getting wider. “Guillaume and Louise are landing today!” she chirps. She reaches out and grasps his hand, then begins to tug him down the hallway. “I cannot _wait_ to see them - it’s been way too long!”

Jughead smiles at the mention of her host parents. “That’s great, Betts,” he says warmly. “I think Elle and Clark are coming for the free dance.”

“And Amie?” she questions, leading him to the elevator.

“And Amie,” Jughead confirms. “I haven’t talked to them since we got here, though. I think Elle might’ve sent me an email, but it’s been, you know, kind of distracting here.”

“You should check it,” Betty encourages, dropping her skating bag on the floor of the elevator once it arrives. “See what she said!”

Jughead closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. “That requires effort and it’s too early.”

Betty makes a disapproving noise with her tongue. He hears her step closer to him and opens his eyes just in time to see her reach into his pocket and grab his phone. “I’ll check it,” she says. “I swear, Jughead, sometimes you are so frustrating.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well she’s trying to get a hold of you and you know it, and you just ignore it - that’s not nice, Jughead.”

“I’m a little _busy_ , Betts, I’m not intentionally ignoring them!”

She gives him a look that immediately silences him. “It’s not you specifically,” she allows, her tone softer. “It’s definitely a man thing. You’re terrible at keeping in touch.”

“That’s sexist,” he comments, closing his eyes again. “What did she say?”

 _“Now_ you’re impatient,” Betty chides. “Hang on, I’m opening your email.” There’s the very dull sound of fingers tapping, then she says, “Juggie, they’re coming to watch the short dance.”

Jughead stands up straight and opens his eyes again. “What?” he says, reaching for his cell.

Betty puts a hand on her hip and holds his phone away from him for a moment. “I just want to point out that this is why you should read your emails.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” he says impatiently. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Can I see my phone now?”

Betty grins at him. “You’re _excited,”_ she teases. “It’s so cute.”

Jughead gives her what he hopes is an exasperated look. The elevator door dings, it opens, and he picks up her bag from the floor. “Betty, we’ve talked about this,” he says plainly. “You’ve got to learn how to control yourself around me.”

She rolls her eyes and presses his phone into his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” she declares, smiling.

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He spends the day with her. This is not unusual. He has spent almost every day for the last fourteen years with Betty. He’s held her hand, he’s kissed her, he’s fought with her, he’s cried with her, he’s laughed with her - and loved her all the way. It’s sappy, he knows. He’s pathetic. But it’s true: he _loves_ her, and she loves him. It’s not new.

But today is different, somehow. Maybe it’s the look on her face when they nail yet another run-through of their short dance. Maybe it’s the little smile she has when she teases him about having to wear suspenders and a bow tie tomorrow. Or maybe it’s just the proximity of the event, the nearing of the end of this whole thing, this masquerade that they’ve performed for four years where they operate as if he’s not completely overwhelmed by his love for her. He just hopes that she’s still waiting, too.

It’s eleven PM, not particularly late by his usual standards, but considering that the most important skate of his life so far is to take place the next day, it’s definitely too late for him to be awake. But here he is anyway, laying in his bed with Charles snoring a few feet away, running his hands over his old beanie. He wonders if it’ll be different, after all this. If they run a great short dance, and if the free after that goes well, he wonders what will happen. Will she kiss him? Will he kiss _her?_ Will it all go back to eighteen, when the only thing that mattered was the way that she looked at him when she was naked and laying underneath him?

He can’t sleep, because he needs to know, so Jughead sits up and jams the beanie onto his head.

He decides to ask.

Betty isn’t asleep either, Jughead realizes, because the speed with which she responds to his _**can I talk to you**_ text is too quick for her to have blearily grabbed a buzzing cell phone. Her _**yes**_ comes almost instantaneously, so rapid that he almost wonders if she too has been laying awake with her phone in her hand, thinking.

Then she steps into the hallway, dressed casually in black leggings and a long sweater with her thick jacket overtop, and he knows immediately by the look in her eye that she _has_.

 _How many unsent messages have you written to me?_ Jughead wants to ask, but doesn’t. He could never tell her his own answer, because he lost count years ago.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he says by way of greeting, and she nods.

They head downstairs, taking the stairs this time rather than the elevator, letting their feet fall in lockstep and echo as one in the concrete stairwell. With two floors to go, Jughead takes Betty’s hand. They reach the main floor and push into the lobby, which is still bustling with athletes and families who are all at various stages with respect to their own Olympic events, but she doesn’t let go. Nobody takes a second look at them anyway, not anymore, this couple that’s not a couple. Not tonight, anyway.

Jughead leads Betty outside and into the night air. The city lights have drowned out all but the brightest of stars, but still he looks up at them, twinkling and innocent.

“We should come back to the mountains after all this,” he tells her. “Camping, or something.”

Betty leans into his arm, her breath escaping in puff of vapour. “That sounds really nice,” she says, her voice quiet despite the noise around them. “Tents and sleeping bags and instant coffee.”

“Yeah?” Jughead raises his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t be too cold for camping?”

She gives him a look, not the first of the day by any means. “I know I don’t exactly have a good reputation for the outdoors -”

“You almost set the woods by Sweetwater River on fire, Betty.”

“That was Archie’s fault,” she hisses, poking his stomach. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

 _I am,_ he wants to say. _Always._

Instead, he tells her, “We can’t blame Archie for everything.”

“Sure we can,” Betty giggles. “Anyway, as I was _saying,_ I know I’m not like, Paul Bunyan, but I like being in the woods.” She squeezes his hand. “Besides, you’ll keep me warm.”

Jughead nods, looking down at the sidewalk. He raises his eyes just slightly and spots the small flooded pond that the Denver organizing committee had installed on the grounds of the athletes’ village. It’s shrouded in a degree of darkness now that nobody’s using it, but it’s cute and quaint and seems to beckon to him.

He glances at Betty to see if she’s spotted it. She’s grinning up at him, her eyes flicking back and forth between him and the pond. “I won’t tell my mom if you don’t,” she says.

“Yeah,” Jughead breathes, “deal.”

They walk over, stepping onto the flat ice with just their boots. He slides around, careful not to fall and break a leg, and marvels at the sheer difference that skates make. At the same time, standing on the ice with her hand clasped in his feels so fucking right, he can barely handle it. She’s smiling beside him, his breath is quick in his throat, and he thinks, _it’s for this,_ this feeling of the ice under his feet and her hand in his.

Jughead clears his throat. “So tomorrow,” he says conversationally, as they slide around in small circles, “there’s the short. Then the free. Then … we’re done.”

“Well, there’s other competitions, but I know what you mean,” Betty replies, her face unreadable in the darkness. “This whole Olympic dream-slash-nightmare is over.”

 _Dream-slash-nightmare._ He gets it. “Yeah.”

“Then we get to decide what we wanna do,” Betty continues. “Is that what you were getting at? We don’t need to retire, physically - we could definitely do another Olympics, maybe even two.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “But physical condition isn’t the only thing to consider, necessarily.”

Betty is quiet as she raises her eyes from the ground to the sky, staring at the stars as he’d done minutes earlier. “Yeah,” she finally says. “That’s true.”

Jughead swallows. Deep down, he’d never truly considered that this moment could play out in any way other than how he’d hoped, even with all of the experience he’s had of things not going his way. Somehow, he’d just known that there was only one pathway for this to follow.

But maybe, he’s suddenly realizing, there’s not.

“Hey, actually,” he begins, interrupting Betty’s thoughtful gaze at the sky. She looks at him, curious, and he tells her, “Let’s talk about this later. I don’t - just - after the free, maybe. No reason to make rash decisions now.”

Betty stares at him for a few long beats, too long to be fleeting but not long enough to be piercing, either, and Jughead thinks briefly that she looks almost hurt. But eventually, she does agree.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Later.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something about the ice. It’s a smooth, endless expanse under Betty’s blades, the Olympic rings at its centre spots of brightness that call to her. When she steps on it, it hardly even feels slippery. It welcomes her, accepts her, bares itself to her - waits for her to give it magic.

There is something about the crowd. Betty can feel their energy, the full-body buzz of it, but she does not hear their racket, their shouts and their applause. They don’t distract her; they buoy her. She watches stars and stripes flutter under the grasp of mittens.

There is something, _something_ , about Jughead, circling the rink, skating back toward her, the small smile that curls on his mouth just for her, not one iota of it for the cameras or the judges. “May I have this dance, Miss Cooper?” he murmurs to her as his hand slides over the small of her back, and she’s relaxed enough to joke, “Why, Mr. Jones, funny meeting you here.”

There’s something about the day, the mid-February snowfall. There’s something about the crisp chill of the arena and the cool air that fills her lungs to their full capacity.

And there’s something about their waltz.

It’s golden.

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Afterwards, they have to do a bit of press, nodding along as reporters ask questions and trading off on who does the answering. Betty clutches Jughead’s hand throughout the brief scrum; she hasn’t let go of it since they skated off the ice, holding tightly to it as they awaited their scores, keeping it clasped in her own when she threw her other arm around his shoulders in a hug, maintaining her grip on his fingers as they left the kiss and cry. Their palms are sweaty now, sticking together, but she can’t fathom letting go of him. He’s the other half of what happened out on the ice, the only other person caught in a unique spider web of joy and nauseating nervousness. She can tell, by the way he keeps squeezing her hand nearly hard enough to hurt, that he feels the same way.

Her eyes keep flicking to the large screens above centre ice, screens that flash the overall standings for the ice dancing short dance programs over and over again. It’s like she feels it necessary to confirm, repeatedly, that they’re still at the top, resting in first place, 2.02 points ahead of the skaters in second. They have a lead. This is the Olympics, and they have a _lead._

All they have to do now is keep it.

At the door to the women’s change room, Betty’s fingers refuse to untangle themselves from Jughead's. She feels like her fingerprints are trying to press themselves into his skin. There are words in her throat, itching to make their way onto her tongue and past her lips. There is a part of her that’s eight years old all over again and wants to cry _Juggie, we did it!_ And there’s a part of her that’s so much older, a part of her that feels unsatisfied with _we did it!_ , a part of her that sees so much more that they might do.

“Get changed, Betts,” he tells her, voice gritty and smooth all at once, like ice shavings. “I’ll see you after.”

She watches his thumb stroke over the soft skin on the inner part of her wrist before he lets her go. “And we’ll talk later,” she reminds him, feeling like she’s waiting for a promise.

He gives it to her, just like he’s always given her everything he has: “We’ll talk later.”

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By the time they make it out of the arena, USA jackets zipped up over t-shirts that are sticking to their sweaty skin, their families are waiting for them, clumped together in a group, heads bent against occasional gusts of wind. Polly’s already crying and Betty finds herself clutched in a tight hug and chuckling softly into her sister’s shoulder.

“We didn’t win, Poll,” she says, offering the reminder quietly.

“You looked like a scene from an old movie,” Polly says, leaning back so that she can look at Betty. “I don’t think I took a single breath the entire time.”

Betty allows herself to crack a tiny smile. “It felt good,” she admits carefully.

“It felt _great_ ,” Polly corrects, giving Betty’s shoulders a slight shake and rolling her eyes, not for the first time, at her younger sister’s caution when it comes to optimism.

“Hopefully we’ll keep our momentum,” Jughead says, his fingers wrapping around Betty’s elbow, squeezing briefly. Her eyes flicker toward him and she tells him, with a single look, _we will_ , all hints of modesty gone for an instant when she meets his gaze, leaving only a determination she feels so fiercely that it seems to run like fire through her blood.

“You were so beautiful out there,” Gladys says softly, leaning across Jughead slightly to look at Betty.

Betty gives her a smile. Her memories of Gladys are vague and hazy: a frazzled-looking woman with her hair in a bun zipping up Jughead’s coat to his chin outside the south side skating rink; tired eyes in the stands at a competition, Jellybean’s tiny fingers on her cheek; a phone call that never came.

“It’s all Jug,” she demurs, which is something she says to reporters often when they marvel at the way she balances a blade on his leg or leaps into his arms, but when she says it to Jughead’s previously-absent mother, she means it more than she ever has before. “I’m just the flower. He’s the stem. And the roots.”

“You’re not _just_ anything,” Jughead murmurs, almost automatically.

“You both skated wonderfully,” Alice says, rubbing her hands, encased in stylish gloves, together to ward off the chill. “It was truly pe - ”

Betty looks at her mother, her eyes going wide. _Don’t say perfect_ , she thinks, suddenly horrified, abruptly superstitious. _Please, please don’t say perfect._

Alice catches her eye, and the sentence seems to die on her tongue. Betty doesn’t know if she’s ever seen her mother speechless.

“You skated just how I knew you could,” Alice amends after a moment. “We’re - I’m - proud of you both.”

The corners of Betty’s lips tip upward, a tremulous smile forming.

“Elle couldn’t stop crying,” Clark confides; his wife smacks the back of her hand against his chest chidingly and all of the parents, both biological and host, laugh together. Beneath the laughter, Betty hears the murmur of Jellybean’s voice as she says something to her brother - whatever it is, it makes Jughead grin, and Betty’s heart begins to feel like it’s crackling, campfire-bright, in her chest.

A mittened hand slips into hers and she looks down to see Amie, now twelve years old and sporting a Team Canada hat, a Team USA jacket, and a shirt that says _Go for Gold!_ with an image of Betty and Jughead from the most recent national championship screenprinted on it, staring up at her with serious eyes.

“J’ai pleuré aussi,” she whispers as Betty leans down. _I cried, too_. Switching seamlessly to English, she adds, “I didn’t think I would, but I did. It was like watching shooting stars.” She pauses, seeming to examine Betty’s face, before she says, “I love Jughead.”

“I know you do, Amie,” Betty says warmly, glancing down at Amie’s shirt again. “And I know that he’s really happy that you’re here.”

Pushing windswept hair out of her face, Amie asks, “You love him, too, right?”

Betty feels her face grow as somber as the younger girl’s remains. “Of course I do,” she says sincerely.

Amie rolls her lips together. “It would make me really sad if his heart was broken.”

Betty blinks. The wind is howling, cutting between their bodies, and she tells herself it’s the reason her eyes are stinging so badly. “Amie, I would be, too.” She tries to muster up a smile. “I can’t even tell you how sad I would be.”

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After their muscles have been stretched out and rubbed down to the satisfaction of professional hands, Betty and Jughead meander back toward the Team USA quarters. His arm loops loosely around her shoulders as their boots crunch through the snow, and Betty reaches up to hold his hand in her own, just for a minute.

“Thank you,” he says, after a long, comfortable silence.

“For what?” she asks.

Jughead looks at her as though the answer is obvious. “For today.”

“Jug…” Betty stares down at the ground, where patches of the snow have been worn away by footprints, and shakes her head. “I should thank _you_. You’re the one who throws me around, and who leads, and who - ”

He shakes his head, too. “You were right there with me. So completely with me. When you said _funny meeting you here_ \- it was like you were telling me that we could do it. Like we _would_ do it. And I believed you.”

“And we did,” she says quietly. “Today, at least.”

“Tomorrow, too, Betts,” he says firmly. “Tomorrow too.”

“Tomorrow, too,” she echoes, and then laughs, disbelief bubbling up inside of her. “Juggie,” she giggles, and leaves it at that, partially because she can’t control her laughter, and partially because she knows no more needs to be said.

He nods. “I can taste it, Betty,” he whispers to her. “I swear I can fucking taste it.”

She can, too. Her tongue feels metallic, like some phantom future self has retreated into the past, into her body in this moment, to show her what it’s like to sample Olympic gold between her teeth.

“Hey!” a voice calls, and they turn away from each other, facing forward, to see the captain of the US men’s hockey team headed in their direction. “If it isn’t the king and queen of the arena,” he greets jovially.

“I think that’s your title,” Jughead says with a small tilt to one of his brows.

“After today’s showing, I’m not so sure about that,” the captain, Dax, says. “Congratulations on your placement. Very well deserved.”

“Thank you,” they say in unison, which makes his grin grow even wider.

“You gonna bring it home for America tomorrow?”

In her press conference voice, Betty chirps, “We’re going to do our very best!”

“Didn’t mean to lay on the pressure,” Dax says. “So many people are already so proud of you. You don’t owe them gold.”

Betty is in the midst of formulating a polite response to the effect of _so many people have helped us and loved us, we want to make them proud_ when he adds, “You know what, don’t even do it for America. Do it for yourselves. You’ve earned it.”

Betty’s eyes slide toward Jughead, and his eyes find hers in turn. She dips her chin in the tiniest of nods, because Dax is right. They _have_ worked hard. They’ve given things - each other - up. They’ve poured everything they have into these programs, into this Olympic season.

“That’s...really kind of you to say,” Jughead says, clearing his throat in that way he sometimes does when he’s embarrassed. “Good luck in your games. We’ve got tickets to the final.”

Dax laughs. “ _Definitely_ hope I’ll be seeing you there. Have a good night, kids. Break your legs tomorrow, or whatever you dancers say.”

“Have a good night,” Betty replies.

Dax carries on his way, but she makes no move to continue toward the dorm buildings, and neither does Jughead. Betty knows they should get moving - her body needs a healthy meal (vitamin-rich vegetables and a solid serving of protein), a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep. But her feet seem rooted in the snow, Dax’s words playing on loop in her mind: _Do it for yourselves._

She is tired, and full of nerves, and every muscle in her body seems to be quivering in fear of how it will feel _not_ to win. She’s not quite sure, in that moment, as the sun begins its early descent in the winter sky, how much she has to give herself.

But for Jughead? She has everything.

“Betty,” his soft voice says, cutting through her thoughts. She feels his glove touch her chin, turning her face toward his, and it’s only then that she has the jolting realization that she’s crying.

“It just...hurts,” she tells him, her voice thick and raw. “To want something so much.”

He rests his forehead against her temple, and into her ear, he whispers, “I know.”

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Betty wakes up on the morning of their free dance, her muscles tense with anticipation before her brain has completely found its way online, and then the rest of the day seems to vanish out from underneath her.

Undoubtedly, she eats at least two meals, and stretches out her muscles until they’re loose and limber, and puts on her headphones in order to get lost in her meditation app. All those things, however, seem to drift through her mind without staying power, and abruptly Betty is ensconced in a warm-up room in the depths of the arena, her sneakered feet moving through steps with Jughead’s while Sophie and Luc watch them with critical eyes.

Betty twirls on auto pilot, every bit of the dance stored deep in the memory of her muscles, and as she spins Jughead’s hand drags across her abdomen, disturbing the fabric of her shirt enough that a strip of skin is revealed briefly, between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her leggings. His pinkie finger touches that skin, and it feels like a bolt of electricity, so much so that she nearly falls into his arms when they enter into their dance hold.

“With me?” he murmurs to her.

She looks into his eyes, and even though her hands are finding his hips, even though he’s lifting her into the air, she feels unbelievably grounded, unshakeable in her attachment to him, to the earth.

“Yes,” she whispers, and she flies.

When they’re finished their run-through, Luc slides his arm around Sophie’s shoulders and tugs his wife tight to his side. Sophie’s ever-stoic face is still, for the most part, but there’s a tiny twitch in one corner of her mouth.

“You’re ready,” Luc says, his voice thick.

“Stop that,” Sophie chides him gently, tapping his chest, but she keeps her gaze on Betty and Jughead and nods her agreement.

Betty smiles at their coaches briefly and then tucks her face into Jughead’s shoulder. She doesn’t need to look at his face to know what he’s thinking; her body is so in tune with his that she can feel the blood pumping through his veins.

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Twenty minutes before they’re set to take the ice, they sit side by side and put on their skates, elbows knocking together occasionally as they tighten laces. It reminds Betty of being very young, of their very first competitions, held in small town arenas with little fanfare, bobby pins sticking into her scalp and Jughead’s fingers somewhat clammy as they linked through her own. She feels like her small self, nervous and simultaneously thrilled by the prospect of competition, but today, when she stands up, her hair falls around her shoulders, only the front pieces pinned back, and Jughead’s hand is warm and dry and sure when it encompasses her own.

Skates securely on, Jughead takes a step forward, but Betty grips his fingers hard, holding him back. They need to get out there soon, she knows that, but before they go find their Olympic moment she wants him to understand the impact of it all, of _them_ , of their years together, and the way it’s hitting her square in the chest right now.

She looks into his face and asks him, with her eyes, _Do you realize how far we’ve come?_

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss firmly to her knuckles. Betty knows that kiss says, _I’ve held your hand for fourteen years._ A rogue, wishful part of her brain wonders if it might say even more ( _I never want to hold another_ ), but they made a promise to each other on a small, dark pond that she intends to keep.

There are only moments left in that promise, and every one of them counts.

They stand at the boards as the Italian pair - currently in second place, right after them - take their bows and wave to an enthusiastic crowd. They’ve been on the grand prix circuit with Andrea and Chiara for a while, long enough that Betty can recognize the genuine joy on their faces as they press their hands to their hearts and beam up into the stands. The Italian skaters think they’ve done everything right; Betty can _feel_ that.

And Jughead must, too, because he squeezes her hand - and when she looks over at him he scrunches up his nose briefly and throws her a wink as if to say _they’ve got nothing on us._ It surprises a grin onto her lips; they are model competitors, always, and never cocky in public, but she loves Jughead’s moments of total self-assurance, when he allows himself to have them.

They separate to lap around the ice while Chiara and Andrea receive their scores and meet again in the centre of the rink. The spectators in the arena’s seats are loud enough that Betty imagines the Italians must have received a significant score, but she allows the number that’s announced to get lost amidst the racket and doesn’t look up at the scoreboard. She just looks at Jughead.

“Ensemble,” he murmurs to her, mouth barely moving, years of French lessons finally sinking in. _Together._

“Toujours,” she whispers back, the soft hiss of the _s_ fading into the very first note of their music, and then they’re dancing.

The movements of the music seem to hold her, somehow; its bars wrap around her extended leg, her curved arm. It propels her toward Jughead’s back, arms wrapping around him in a dramatic, pleading gesture as her lips brush his shirt. He turns around and then he’s in the space the music has made with her, steering them into their spin. _Just a perfect day_ , Lou Reed sings, and the crescendo of the song seems to whirl along with them.

As they head into their final lift, picking up speed, Betty has a half-formed thought: _oh my god - we’re really going to do this._ She sees the same thought dart across Jughead’s face in the form of astonishment, and then their eyes meet, a hard clash. It’s not time to celebrate, and they’re both painfully aware of that.

“S’not Utah,” Jughead breathes in a rush as his hand lands steadily on her thigh to help her into the lift, and she whispers, “I know,” back as she puts her blade on her leg, and the moment her other foot leaves the ice, she’s aware that her placement is perfect: she’s not going to wobble, and she’ll have no problem finding her centre. She arches her back and feels the air rush through her hair, hears the crowd respond eagerly to their feat of balance.

They finish down on the ice ( _you’re going to reap just what you sow_ ), clutching each other’s hands in what is meant to be a desperate display of love. When the music ends, and the crowd roars - it’s not a display, not at all. It’s entirely real.

Betty bursts into tears. In a way it _is_ like Utah, and in a way it’s at the complete opposite end of a spectrum. Her tears are filled with joy, as is the sound that spills out of her mouth, which is supposed to be “Jug,” but is really just a garbled noise that’s half inhale as she tries to catch her breath.

“Holy shit,” he breathes into their joined hands, laughing in a way that sounds like crying. “Holy shit, Betts.”

“Juggie, we just - ” she gasps back at him. She inches closer to him, so that their knees are pressed together, and his lips hit her forehead.

She feels him mouth, “Fuck, babe,” against her skin. His hands come up to either side of her head and hold tightly, like he never wants her to move.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. “Jug - I’m so proud of you.”

“Proud of _you_ ,” he replies, planting a kiss so fierce against her forehead that his chilled lips seem to burn her skin. “Proud of us.”

Betty slides away from him a little because she knows they need to get up; as much as she might want to, they can’t stay in this moment and on this ice forever. They need to make their way to the kiss-and-cry.

Jughead gets his skates underneath himself first and tugs her up. His arm loops around her, fingers pressing indentations into her hip, and they stroke toward the boards in perfect unison as they flower girls skate around them on skinny legs, collecting teddy bears and bouquets.

Their coaches are waiting for them by the boards. Luc’s grin is almost blinding, and Betty knows immediately that he’s going to yank them into a giant hug, but the sight that makes her breath catch is Sophie.

Their thoughtful, perpetually-game-faced coach has both her hands clasped to her heart, and there’s no mistaking the tears in her eyes.

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Their scores flash up onto the screen at the center of the arena, technical elements broken down to the decimal point. Betty’s mind is in no place to attempt rapid addition, so she just stares up at the numbers, Luc’s arm across her shoulders, Jughead’s hand on her knee.

From Jughead’s other side, she hears Sophie say something, but she can’t decipher her coach’s tone, never mind the actual words being spoken. Is Sophie saying _you did it_? Is she saying _you tried your hardest_? Jughead’s hand feels heavier on her knee, but that could mean anything.

The announcer’s voice cuts through her anxious thoughts: “... _are currently in first place_!”

Betty quite literally squeaks, the sound coming out of her mouth high-pitched and sharp. She claps both hands over her mouth, nothing short of stunned at the realization that she has - that they have - achieved their lifelong dream, and then Jughead is on his feet and he’s pulling her up too, gathering her into his arms with such force that he lifts her at least a foot into the air. Betty wraps her arms tightly around him and laughs deliriously.

She clings to Jughead for a long moment, her eyes squeezed shut and a smile stretching her mouth out to a point that’s almost painful. “You’re an Olympic champion,” she whispers into his ear.

He sets her down then, slowly, gently, his hands skimming up over her back. Something is smouldering in his eyes; it makes her stomach clench.

Sophie’s hand lands on Betty’s arm, and she finds herself swept into a new hug. “Je suis si fier,” Sophie says softly, _I am so proud_ , and Betty starts crying all over again. When they pull apart, Betty opens her mouth to apologize for getting snot on Sophie’s elegant sweater, but Sophie touches Betty’s cheek before she can speak, smiles warmly, and adds, “Si fier, mon chouchou.”

“You made her _sappy_ ,” Luc says on a faux dramatic gasp, looping an arm around each of them. His grin is still on his face, unstoppably big and bright “You should be proud, Betty Cooper. Took me two full decades to pull that out of her.” Despite his teasing, his smile is every bit as soft as his wife’s when he adds, “You should be very proud.”

She manages to dip her chin in a nod, but her eyes stray away, searching for her partner - and before she can even really look for him, he’s there, stepping into their group hug, mumbling his thanks to her, and to their coaches, his breath a warm burst on the back of her neck.

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Before they stroke out onto the ice for the flower ceremony, Jughead brushes his thumbs along the skin beneath Betty’s eyes, clearing away the dampness left by her tears. “You’re killing me, Betts,” he murmurs to her. She offers him a tiny, half-apologetic smile, still sniffling, and he pushes a strand of hair off of her face, tucking it behind her ear as the Italian silver medalists take the ice. He traces the shell of her ear with the tip of his index finger, the path of his finger ending at the stud in her earlobe.

Her earrings, normally, are pretty flashy costume jewellery: shiny, dangling gems that catch the light and sparkle. It may have been a terrible idea to break that trend for their Olympic free dance, of all competition skates, but she just couldn’t help herself.

Index finger at the back of her ear, Jughead lifts his thumb as well and rubs it very gently over the little silver crown. The words _I love you_ settle heavily into the center of Betty’s chest, forcing her to fight for the breath she sucks in.

An official leans toward them, her expression somewhat bemused. “It’s your turn,” she prompts gently, just in time for Betty to tune in to the announcer’s voice in order to hear _First place… United States of America!_

It’s the best victory ceremony of Betty’s life, and not because it’s the Olympics and they’re at the top of the podium - but because when she spots her family in the crowd, her father’s chest puffed with pride, her sister’s face streaked with tears, her mother’s hand on her heart, she can wave to them and then look to their left and see, for once, at _last_ , that her partner’s family is right there, too. Jellybean’s face is painted with the American flag, and she’s jumping up and down, waving her arms, yelling words that Betty can’t hear, and on either side of her are Gladys and FP, their faces taut with innumerable emotions. When Jughead breathes a chuckle and waves at them, they all wave back eagerly, and Betty’s heart swells. She tips her cheek to rest it against his shoulder.

Plush versions of the Olympic mascot and bouquets of flowers are handed out, they shake several hands, and then they squeeze onto the top of the podium with the other medalists for a photo op. After smiling for the cameras for a few minutes, it’s time for the victory lap; Jughead steps down from the top of the podium and, on instinct, Betty reaches for his hand so that he can help her down, too - but at the last moment he seems to change his mind, setting both hands on her waist instead, lifting her off the podium and twirling her around twice in his arms.

She laughs and wraps her arms around his neck, and in doing so hits herself in the face with her plush mascot and her bouquet, and the moment, in total, cannot possibly last more than twenty seconds -

But it feels infinite.

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There’s a slew of interviews to be done before they can see their families. They do them outside, still in their costumes, Betty just in tights under her Team USA-branded puffy coat. The sun is shining, the glare constantly in her eyes. She’s isn’t cold.

They’re asked how it feels to be Olympic gold medalists (“Surreal,” Betty says, “amazing.”), if they’d known the moment their skate finished that they’d won (“Definitely not,” Jughead says with a hint of incredulous laughter in his voice, his hand snaking around Betty’s waist; she can barely feel his hand on her hip through her down jacket. “But we knew we’d given it everything we had.”), what it means to win the Olympics in their own country (“I can’t put it into words,” Betty says earnestly, “but I wish I could. Knowing that we just missed out on Beijing by a margin - this kind of feels meant to be, as cheesy as that sounds."), and what they plan to do to celebrate (“Go to McDonald’s,” Jughead says immediately, though they’d never discussed doing so before - and yet, Betty would suddenly _kill_ for a McFlurry). Every single reporter beams at them, like they’re part of the victory somehow, too, and that alone warms Betty against the occasional bluster of a wintry breeze. 

It’s not until they’re back at USA House that they _finally_ see their families. Betty finds herself in a tearful hug with all of her family members, Polly practically sobbing over _how beautiful you were together!_ , her mother’s hand tender in her hair like she’s a little girl again, her father repeating, “Alice - Alice, we raised an Olympic champion.” Out of a half-shut eye, her face partially pressed into Hal’s jacket, Betty spots Amie in Jughead’s arms, her skinny legs around him.

A few members of the press are milling around, capturing pure joy on film, and Betty imagines a photo of her family’s messy group hug might end up in some newspaper or magazine, much to her mother’s chagrin - but it doesn’t. The photo that appears in the _Denver Post_ the next day, run just beneath one of Betty and Jughead beaming at one another on the podium, includes her, and includes Jughead, and, of all people, includes FP.

It was the first thing she saw when she exited the Cooper family hug, intending to hug Louise and Guillaume next: Jughead, in his father's arms, one of FP’s hands clutching the toque he'd removed upon entering the building hard enough to turn his knuckles white, the other hand on the back of his son’s head with the same degree of intensity, holding Jughead close like that embrace might be able to say the things he’d never been able to put into words.

Betty’d pressed her fingertips to her lips, overcome on Jughead’s behalf. _Cooper looks on as Jones and his father share an emotional embrace_ , the photo is ultimately captioned.

When Jughead sees it, he looks at her with such softness in his eyes, two pools of blue that seem to go on forever, sweetness sinking into more of the same, over and over again, that Betty can hardly stand it.

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In a pair of comfortable skinny jeans and a soft, long-sleeved USA tee, her hair wrapped up into a bun, Betty joins Jughead as they get a television interview under their belts, and then a radio one. A member of the radio show staff heard them mention McDonald’s in their earlier interview and takes their orders, rushing off and returning to deliver Jughead both a burger _and_ nuggets and Betty a McFlurry that she all but inhales. At one point during the interview, the host of the program asks Jughead a question directly, and he looks at Betty with his cheeks chipmunk-full of food and an _oops_ in his eyes. Rolling her own eyes, Betty says, “Sorry, Jughead is eating french fries right now.”

The host finds this hilarious, chuckling for a few minutes. “I say this with nothing but kindness,” he says, “to you _and_ to her, but Elizabeth, you sounded _just_ like my wife just now.”

Having swallowed, Jughead jumps in: “She keeps me in check.”

“Not today,” Betty amends. “Anything goes today.”

Jughead quirks a brow at her, and without a word, hands her the remainder of his fries. She maintains eye contact with him as she plucks one out of the container, and then, on impulse, dips it into her ice cream.

“I’m sure it does!” the host says warmly. “You two deserve all the fries you can eat.”

“Thank you,” Betty says politely, and then proceeds to stuff her face.

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After the official medal ceremony, all the madness finally ends, and it’s just Betty and Jughead - and their phones, so full of notifications that she’s surprised the little electronic slabs haven’t completely given up and just combusted. She weeds through all the messages, prioritizing the most important ones and replying to them, while Jughead nudges her this way and that - sometimes with a hand on her hip, sometimes with a tug on her sleeve - navigating them both through the athlete’s village. She replies to their teammates, Odette, to their footwork coach Claire, to the head of USFSA, and to Archie and Veronica, who have sent, cumulatively, thirty-nine congratulatory texts. Betty confirms that she and Jughead will see them at the women’s free skate tomorrow. 

Even though the Games are only half-over, by early evening USA House is bustling and boisterous, a party beginning to rage, and they’re de facto guests of honour. Betty finds herself holding a red solo cup (the print on its sides, which she doesn’t bother to read, is blue and white; patriotic as can be) frothing with beer. It’s her first non-guilty drink - ever. _Ever._ It’s too hoppy for her tastes, but still, somehow, it’s a nectar.

They weave through the crowd together, accepting hugs and handshakes, congratulations and the occasional roar of appreciation: _It’s fuckin’ Cooper and Jones, guys!_ Betty’s beer spills onto her fingers and shirt as they’re jostled about, and she finds herself drinking great big gulps before it can make even more of a mess.

Music is blasting; Betty can feel it pounding through the soles of her boots. She accepts another hug, this time from a veteran skier whom she admires so much that to be admired in turn is sort of mind-boggling, and then, at last, it seems that everyone who wants a piece of them, at least for the moment, has had it.

Unsurprisingly, Jughead seems to have had the same thought. He slips a hand briefly into the back pocket of her jeans and then uses his grip on the pocket itself to twirl her right into his side, beneath his arm.

“Anything goes,” he muses, right into her ear. “Is that what I heard you say earlier?”

She swallows hard, her mouth abruptly dry. “That’s what you heard,” she confirms.

His lips brush against her ear, and she sighs, tilting her head just a little bit, leaning into it, and then - in a move that surprises her so much that she nearly spills the remainder of her beer all over herself - he bites at the lobe of her ear, stud and all.

“Juggie,” she gasps, stepping out of his hold.

His cup is still full, and she watches the liquid tremble at the rim, threatening to overflow, shaking in time with the pulse of the bass beats in the music. “Why did you wear those?” he asks her. "Those earrings."

Betty exhales slowly and allows her feet to make their way, tentative and confident all at once, back into his space, until they’re chest to chest. “You know why,” she says, or maybe she only really mouths it, but either way, she knows he’ll understand.

Despite the steady calm of his expression, she knows Jughead well enough to notice the minute creases in the skin around his eyes, which always give away his nerves. “Tell me,” he says, two words unaccompanied by a question mark, like a demand, but she can hear the plea in them. She knows him. She knows him with her whole soul.

She looks at him and sees him, younger and much sadder, in a closet in Utah. She can never quite remember who first said the words, who first gave up their non-skating relationship. She’s always thought it was him, but maybe that was just easier than laying the blame on herself. “You tell _me_ ,” she says, because she, too, is scared.

“Betts,” he sighs. He touches her shoulder, his thumb rubbing over her collarbone.

“Jug,” she replies. They look at each other for another moment and then she adds, “I think we should leave this place.”

He nods, his face very somber, like she’s proposed a covert operation. “I think so, too.”

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They discard their cups of beer and walk back to the dorms hand in hand. Betty brought her mittens, so she squeezes his fingers every now and again, lending warmth.

“Do you think your roommate is around?” Jughead asks several minutes into the trek.

Betty shakes her head. “She’s in Aurora until tomorrow for training.”

“Okay,” he says.

The dorm building gets closer and closer as they trample through slush. “Okay,” Betty echoes, her heart beating in her throat, under her tongue.

Once inside her room, the door shut and locked behind them, they both shrug out of their coats, leaving them unceremoniously in a heap on the floor. Betty slides off her mittens and places them atop her small dresser. Even though the wool is cold, her palms are sweaty.

They meet in the center of the room, at the ends of the two twin beds. Jughead touches her arm just above the elbow and runs his fingers downward; it’s something he does often before they take the ice, something Odette calls grounding. When his fingers find her own, Betty takes hold of them.

“You know why I wore the earrings,” she says, looking at his feet, his thick gray socks. “I know you do.” Despite her assertion, she finds herself biting her lip and looking up at him apprehensively. “Right?”

“I do.” He takes his free hand and sets it on her hip. She wonders sometimes if their bodies grew into each other, or if they were always going to fit so perfectly, slotting together like puzzle pieces. “I know. And - Betts, the other night on the pond, when I said we should stop talking about - ”

“I know,” she cuts in gently. She lifts her hand, intending to lay it on his chest, but she changes her mind at the last second and slips it beneath his shirt instead to put her hand atop his heart, her palm against his skin. “And… Juggie, what happened in Utah, I know that I - ”

“I know, babe,” he murmurs, dipping his head down so that their noses touch.

“And I don’t think I ever stopped - ”

“Me neither,” he says quietly, his hand slipping from her waist around to her back, pulling her body flush against his.

“That whole thing with Valentin,” she whispers.

“I know what you thought,” Jughead says, his fingers sneaking beneath her shirt. “I know what we said.” She feels his chest rise under her hand as he takes a breath. “Betty, when we were in Chicago, I wanted to tell you - ”

“I know,” she says, rising up onto her toes the slightest bit. She can feel his exhale on her mouth and she aches to kiss him.

“Do you?” he asks softly, looking at her lips like they hold the answer to that question and a thousand others.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says emphatically. “Yes. Jug, whenever you wanted to - I wanted to, too.”

The right corner of his mouth quirks in tandem with his eyebrow. “I wanted to… always,” he says lowly, a vulnerable confession.

Betty holds his gaze with her own. “Whenever you wanted to say something,” she says steadily. “Whenever you wanted more. I did, too.”

His expression settles into one of seriousness. “And now?”

Finally, _finally_ , Betty lets her lips brush his, and into his mouth, she breathes: “And now.”

His mouth crashes onto hers, his kiss hot and hard, full of pent-up yearning and maybe even impatience, and it feels - it feels like being on top of the podium, like finally holding something in her hands that she’s been craving for years and years.

He gets her out of her shirt in no time, leaving her in her black sports bra, which is both confining and not exactly sexy, so Betty strips that off too, wrestling her arms out of it and tossing it on the floor. Jughead’s seen her naked before, but still, he looks at her with more awe in his eyes than had been there when he held the gold medallion he’d earned earlier in the day.

She tugs the hem of his shirt upward and he takes it off, and then they reach for each other’s jeans, and in one of their displays of uncanny unison, unbutton and unzip for each other in perfect sync. Betty almost wants to laugh, but Jughead’s tongue is in her mouth and his hand is sliding into her jeans, cupping her over her panties, and what she really wants is him.

She pulls her jeans and underwear down with a single smooth tug, steps out of them, and then uses her toes to nudge her socks off her feet. They tumble onto her bed together, and though it’s been a long time since any part of her body was really off-limits for Jughead, he touches her with a newfound sense of freedom, fingers kneading into her breasts, a hand gripping her ass. She returns the favour, tracing over the v-lines of his hips with her fingertips, and circling her hand around him lightly, giving a couple experimental pumps that have him groaning loudly into her neck and grabbing her wrist.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells her, kissing along the line of her jaw somewhat sloppily, his own hand making its way between her thighs, and the two of them, they’ve always been good with muscle memory: his fingers know just what to do. Betty’s legs fall open and her hand finds purchase on his bicep as she gasps, “I’m in love with you, too.”

“I wanted this every day,” he tells her, watching her appreciatively as her body responds to the way he’s touching her. “Thought about you in my bed every night.”

“Jug,” she sighs, her head pressing back into the blanket beneath them. “You have no idea.” She slips her fingers between his own to provide a little guidance, tells him, “Every night, just like this.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, pressing himself against her thigh.

Betty removes his hand, and before he can question her, shifts up into a sitting position as she nudges him onto his back. She straddles him, letting his hardness glide against where she’s wet, and he curses again, clutching her hips with just the right amount of pressure.

“I can’t last like this,” he says through gritted teeth.

Halfway there herself, Betty says, simply, “So don’t.”

“Fuck, babe,” he sighs, and then, “ _shit_ ,” with his eyes growing wider, losing a bit of the hooded look of arousal. “Condoms,” he says, his gaze darting around the room like one of the infamously Olympic-supplied ones will magically appear.

Betty gives her head a tiny shake, trailing fingers over his chest. “I’ve got my IUD,” she says. “And it’s only ever been you, Jug.”

He grabs her hand in his own, brings it to his mouth to kiss her palm, and then sits up beneath her. “You sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” she confirms, and then he’s inside of her, and her breath catches in her throat and her nails dig into his shoulders. They don’t quite kiss; their mouths stretch open in quiet gasps and half-stifled moans, their lips brushing together lightly. Jughead slides his hand into her hair and fists a few locks, and when she whimpers his name he nips at her exposed neck.

Their orgasms come quickly, crashing through their bodies seemingly out of nowhere, but, true to form, they come together.

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Early in the morning, during the lavender light of dawn, Betty’s eyes flutter open and land on Jughead’s smile.

“Hey,” he whispers to her, his voice rough from sleep. “Got a question for you.”

“Yeah?” she murmurs, trying to rouse herself a bit more as she rolls over onto her side, so that she’s facing him.

He pushes her tangled hair out of her face. “Betty Cooper. Will you be my non-skating partner?”

A smile curls onto her lips to match the one he’s wearing. “Jughead Jones. I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

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At eleven, they meet up with Archie and Veronica at the arena. They’re a little late - which is _not_ Betty’s modus operandi - but they keep getting stopped for hugs and pictures and autographs. She finds herself wishing she’d put on actual foundation rather than just tinted moisturizer, but then she catches Jughead grinning at her in a way that is downright goofy as she crouches down to take a photo with two little girls, and she just doesn’t _care_. She doesn’t care that she doesn’t look perfect, or that she probably ate _way_ too many calories yesterday, or that the mist in the air is making her hair kind of frizzy. She’s an _Olympic gold medalist_ , and she finally has the freedom to be honest about her feelings.

As they move away from the family that asked for a picture, Jughead’s fingers brush Betty’s, like he intends to take her hand, but he doesn’t. She glances over at him from under the hood of her raincoat and knows, immediately, what he’s thinking. Letting themselves be too open, too out there, had been an issue last time. She doesn’t think it really _contributed_ to the demise of their relationship, but it certainly didn’t help.

But now - things are different now. They’re at the Olympics. They _won_ the Olympics. Their skating has spoken for itself; no one will ever be able to mention Cooper and Jones again without noting that they won gold medals in Denver.

She takes Jughead’s hand.

She does, however, let go of it when she spots Archie and Veronica huddled under an umbrella, and with good reason - the exuberant whoop that Archie lets out when he sees them for the first time as medalists is loud enough to draw stares; she can’t imagine what its volume would’ve been like if he saw them as medalists who are also dating.

“My gold medal best friends!” he cheers, handing the umbrella to Veronica so that he can wrap an arm around each of them. “You guys _crushed_ it. I’m so happy we were here to see that!”

“Thanks, Arch,” Betty mumbles fondly into the sleeve of his jacket.

He grins at them. “I _knew_ you had it,” he says, and then glances back at Veronica for confirmation. “Right, Ronnie? The minute the music stopped, I was like, _they just won it all._ ”

“I, on the other hand,” Veronica says wryly, angling the umbrella out of the way so that she can give Betty a hug, “could barely breathe.”

“The not-breathing camp was the one we were in, too,” Jughead says. “But I appreciate your confidence, Arch.”

“I felt like I was witnessing history,” Archie says as they all make their way into the arena. “And, Jug, I saw your dad. He looked so… ”

“Yeah,” Jughead says, clearing his throat as they find their places in a line, waiting to have their tickets scanned. “It’s really good that he came.”

“A _lot_ of people are proud of you,” Veronica says. “And it’s very well-deserved.”

When they get to their seats, they slip out of their damp coats, and Betty notices immediately that Veronica is wearing a COOPERJONES sweatshirt. It looks somewhat humorously incongruous sandwiched between her stylish, skinny black pants and her dangling silver earrings that appear to feature real diamonds, but that incongruity speaks to her support in a way that makes Betty’s throat feel like it’s swelling. She slips an arm around Veronica, their second hug in however many minutes.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she says softly.

Returning the hug, Veronica tells her, “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Knowing what she knows about rankings, Betty’s not actually expecting either of the American singles skaters, Leanne and Evelina, to medal once all the free skates have been performed. At first, she’s just happy to be there, supporting her teammates and hanging out with Archie and Veronica, laughing together and catching up on Riverdale news when the zamboni makes its way over the ice, watching as Archie gives Jughead’s shoulder a light, friendly punch as if no time has passed at all.

But things do end up getting interesting on the ice: the assumed gold medalist has several devastating falls, and another top-ranked skater just can’t seem to hit her triple axels. It’s hard to witness, and Betty knows the feeling; her heart goes out to each of them, filled with empathy. But Jughead whispers in her ear that the unexpected twists in the competition mean that their teammate, Evelina, actually has a chance of making it onto the podium.

And she does. Evelina skates the cleanest performance Betty’s ever seen from her, nailing her elements, performing her step sequence with aplomb. After holding her final pose for a few seconds, she bursts into tears; she knows, and everyone in the arena knows, that she’s just earned herself an Olympic medal.

Betty and Jughead jump to their feet immediately. She yells _go Evie!_ through cupped hands as, on her right, Jughead claps so hard that she’s sure his palms must hurt. Betty breathes an elated laugh, so thrilled for the eighteen-year-old down there on the ice, and turns to Jughead.

It’s her instinct. When she’s feeling happy - when she’s feeling anything - he’s the one she turns to.

He beams back at her, looking for an instant like a little boy who raced after her on skates that were too tight, who touched her waist hesitantly, who whispered _I’m not gonna drop you_ when her knees were shaking before their first-ever attempt at a lift. She reaches toward him, going in for a hug, and he surprises her by putting his glove-covered hands on her cheeks and kissing her full on the lips.

Betty blinks once in shock before her eyes fall shut, and she kisses him back, her hands lifting to rest on his forearms. The kiss doesn’t last very long, but it’s long enough for Archie to holler _WHAT!_ and fling his jacket on the ground in a fit of enthusiasm.

(Buzzfeed will later tweet a photo of that exact moment, of Archie’s ridiculously happy open-mouthed expression, captioned with: _Forsythe ‘Jughead’ Jones’ best friend is every bit as excited that Cooper & Jones are a couple as you are._)

“I knew it, we _knew_ it!” Archie says as Betty giggles, her nose bumping Jughead’s before she turns to regard their friends somewhat bashfully. Veronica isn’t participating in the scene Archie’s making, but her smile is wide and sweet, her head tilted as she looks at Betty and Jughead, clearly pleased that her assumptions weren’t unfounded.

“Arch, people are trying to skate,” Jughead laughs, rolling his eyes.

Archie rolls his eyes in return and leans past Veronica to plant a noisy smack of a kiss on Betty’s forehead. “We need beer, bro,” he says firmly, and grabs onto Jughead’s sweater, hauling him toward the end of their row in the stands. Jughead follows him indulgently, his hand brushing Betty’s hip as he moves past her.

After the boys are gone, Betty turns toward Veronica and says, earnestly, “It’s… new. We weren’t hiding it or anything.”

“Oh, B,” Veronica says, hooking her arm through Betty’s. “It doesn’t matter. You two have worked your asses off, and Archie and I want you to be happy.”

“Thanks, Veronica,” Betty says, tipping her head to rest it against Veronica’s briefly.

“It’ll last,” Veronica says. “The two of you - I can’t imagine it any other way.” She pauses and then adds, “The way you look at each other and the way you are with each other and just… what you _have_. I think… everyone wants that.”

Betty lifts her head and tilts it to look down into Veronica’s face. “I think you’ve got a really good candidate, V,” she says softly. “If that’s what _you_ want.”

Veronica looks up through her eyelashes, a small smile on her lips. “Yeah,” she says, matching Betty’s soft tone. “I do, too.”

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The figure skating gala is on the second-last day of the Olympics. As she puts on her costume for their “Losing My Religion” exhibition performance, Betty’s heart feels so full that tears keep springing up into her eyes; she blinks them away firmly so as not to ruin her makeup. Her time in Denver was been so intensely fulfilling that she doesn’t want to leave.

It’s not just that they won the Olympics - it's so much more. 

It's that Jughead fingers wound into her hair at breakfast in the caf that morning, and when he went to get them both a second cup of coffee, he stamped a kiss against her lips first, casual as can be.

It’s that she watched Jughead walk off to have lunch with his whole family, his mother’s hand on his arm, his father’s hand ruffling his hair, his little sister sporting a grin and his medal, and that later, in the privacy of the shower they shared, he told her that his parents told him that they were proud of him, for all he’d accomplished even without the support he’d deserved from them, and that they were sorry. “They told me _together_ , Betts,” he said, with her soapy hands massaging his shoulders. “They actually agreed on something.”

It’s that when they had dinner at an upscale restaurant with Sophie and Luc two evenings ago, she shared a piece of rich, decadent cheesecake with Jughead, and once they scraped up the last crumbs with their forks, she said, “Let’s order another,” and Luc went right ahead and ordered four more pieces of cheesecake for the table, none of which they actually managed to finish. Betty sipped her red wine while Luc paid the cheque and considered the fact that she’d never been quite so wonderfully, unbearably full before.

It’s that they got to go out to a bar one night with Archie and Veronica and act like completely normal twenty-somethings; she even managed to coerce Jughead onto the dance floor for a few songs and he’d half-yelled, “I think I’m better at waltzing” in her ear, making her laugh with her head tipped back and her mind totally empty of worries relating to the future.

Betty’s heart hurts at the thought of leaving it all behind. Sometimes she feels a thrill of anticipation as she thinks of the uncertainty of the next few weeks, of the decisions that will have to be made, and sometimes she feels anxious about the return to their non-Olympic reality.

Because they’re gold medalists, they’re performing rather late in the gala. Once she's ready, Betty puts her guards on her skates and leaves the changing room to find Jughead. Together, they head out into the tunnel to watch bits and pieces of the other skaters’ performances.

They watch the Japanese mens’ singles winner leave the ice to thunderous applause and the French couple who won the gold medal in pairs skate out. As soon as their music starts - Rihanna’s “Love on the Brain” - Betty realizes that they’re going for the same sort of emotional theme that she and Jughead are.

She takes Jughead’s hand as the French emote their way around the ice, weaving her fingers through his slowly, allowing herself to feel each one of his callouses, each small scrape from the blade of a skate, the crease of each knuckle. “How are you?” she murmurs.

He takes so long to answer that she turns toward him, worried that something’s wrong. He leans in and kisses her cheek lightly, aware that she’s got carefully placed blush and contour powder on her face. “Best I’ve ever been, I think,” he says.

Betty tries to bite back her grin, but she isn’t quite successful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jughead says firmly.

She sighs, feeling fundamentally content. “Me, too.”

On the ice, the French skaters spin around in perfect unison, nearly blurry thanks to their speed.

_Don’t you stop loving me._

_Don’t quit loving me._

_Just start loving me._

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Several days after the Olympic closing ceremonies, Betty wakes in her childhood bedroom before the sun has risen.

The quiet and the darkness remind her of another time, of almost fifteen years ago, of the start of it all. Of her mother’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake: _Elizabeth, time to get up. We have to go._ To the rink, to a costume fitting, to ballet class, to a competition - she’d woken up on countless mornings long before her peers with dreams of even bigger things flitting through her mind.

The box containing her medal sits on her bedside table. She likes to see it first thing in the morning to avoid the temporary fear that it was all a dream.

Tossing back her blankets, Betty gets out of bed, wraps a robe around herself, and tiptoes down the stairs to the kitchen. They’d arrived in Riverdale from Montreal yesterday, and she’d found the Cooper kitchen table laden with gifts: several bouquets, a few baked goods, an impossible number of cards, and a silk sash that she’s supposed to wear to today’s celebratory gathering in Riverdale High’s gymnasium that says _Guest of Honour_ on it, courtesy of Veronica and Kevin Keller. She hasn’t had much communication with Kevin since the move to Montreal, and the fact that he still cared enough to help make sashes had touched her deeply - she hopes to pick up where she left off with him, to reestablish their friendship.

The flowers had been dispersed throughout the house, and all the remaining bouquets were sent off to the hospital or the retirement home in Centreville. Alice had kept the nicest, grandest flower arrangement in the center of the kitchen table. It’s from Cheryl Blossom and Toni Topaz, who are, it seems, still together after all these years. The note said _Congratulations!! xo T & C_ in slightly messy handwriting, followed by a postscript in perfect cursive: _Thank you for taking up enough real estate in Jones’ head that he never had a real chance with my girl._ It had made Betty laugh and roll her eyes - some things never change.

She pops a cup into the Keurig, and when her coffee is ready, carries the mug back upstairs. She sips her hot drink while sitting in her window seat, staring out at the quiet street, at the soft glow from the streetlamps dotting the pavement with circles of light.

When she’s finished with her coffee, she picks up her phone and texts Jughead.

_Meet me at the rink._

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Even though his father’s trailer is much closer than her parents’ home, she beats Jughead to the rink. The key is housed in a lock box hanging on one of the back door handles; the code has been the same forever, and Betty punches it in automatically. She flicks the light switches and the pitch-black space turns blindingly bright.

She tugs on an old pair of striped legwarmers and laces up her skates before beginning to lap lazily around the rink. The ice feels like an old friend under her feet.

When she hears the heavy door creak open, she glances over her shoulder. Jughead has his skates slung over his shoulder and is eating a Pop-Tart. He waves to her and drops down into the stands to put on his skates, holding the Pop-Tart in his mouth as he laces them up. Betty moves toward the boards slowly and rests her elbows on them as she looks at him. 

“Hey,” she says.

“Mff,” he mumbles around his Pop-Tart, making her smile.

He chows down the rest of his breakfast in three quick bites and then joins her on the ice, swiping crumbs off of his face. His arm moves around her waist, easy and habitual as breathing.

“Hey there,” he says, pulling her close so that her torso presses against his.

She links her hands at the back of his neck. “Good morning.”

“You’re up early.”

Betty grins. “So are you.”

“A pretty girl texted me,” he says, and kisses her. His mouth tastes like warm sugar. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Your _girlfriend_ texted you,” she corrects, raising an eyebrow at him.

He presses a kiss to her lifted brow. “My pretty, Olympic champion girlfriend,” he agrees.

Betty tilts her chin up for another kiss, and he obliges her immediately, cupping her jaw in his hand and coaxing her mouth open with his tongue. She lets the tips of her fingers slide into his hair - it’s getting long and he needs a cut, but she enjoys the opportunity to tug at the strands in a way that pulls a noise out of his throat and into her mouth. She swallows that sound, pleased by it, as she feels the boards press into her lower back as Jughead moves even closer to her, their hips pressing together.

“Jug,” she says on a soft laugh, giving him a chiding look after she breaks the kiss.

“I missed you,” he sighs, stealing another kiss. “We _live_ together; it doesn’t make sense that your mom insists we sleep on separate sides of town.”

“As far as she’s concerned, we live together in two separate bedrooms,” Betty reminds him, even though Jughead’s bed back in Montreal has been unoccupied since they returned from Denver.

“When do you think she’ll let that go?” he asks, in the tone of someone who knows very well how hard it is to get Alice Cooper to let anything go.

“Maybe when we’re eighty?” Betty jokes.

“Or maybe when we’re married?”

She blinks at him several times, faintly stunned by the entirely casual way he says that, like it’s a given, like it’s not even a question - and it isn’t, not really.

She smiles at him, soft and slow. “Maybe then.”

Jughead takes her hand. “Hey, Betts. Want to dance with me?”

Squeezing his fingers, she says, easily, “Always.”

They move around the ice together, throwing out old routines and making their way through the steps the best their memory will allow them to: “Polka from when we were ten,” Betty says, and once they’ve laughed their way through dancing it, Jughead says, “Let’s tango romantica,” and their laughter fades away as they perform the dance, passion and quick footwork and locked gazes, only for each other.

“Let’s do ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’,” Betty says afterward, when they’re breathless, and they skate the whole routine perfectly, without an ounce of hesitation, like the choreography is from days, not years, ago.

When it’s done, she rests her head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft and slightly damp from sweat. She can smell his deodorant and the hint of cigarette smoke that always seems to settle on his skin when they’re in Riverdale.

“Juggie,” she murmurs.

He runs his hand over her ponytail, smoothing out hairs that are still a little twisted and tangled from sleep. “Yeah?”

“We’re going to - soon, we’re going to have to have a… conversation.”

He nods, his cheek brushing against his forehead. “Yeah.”

Betty pulls away from him slowly, putting just a bit of distance between their bodies. She licks her lips, thinking over her words carefully before she says them. “I think we have another Olympics in us. We’re still young, and I feel like we could try harder lifts, push more limits. There’s a part of me that just wants to know if we can do it again, if we can be repeat medalists. But there’s a bigger part of me that remembers what it was like last time we trying to be skating partners and… life partners, at the same time. It didn’t work. And I don’t want to go through that again. It was awful. It was awful for us as Betty and Jughead, and it was awful for us as Cooper and Jones.”

Jughead nods. “It was.”

She draws in a deep breath. “So - so if I have to choose, I’d choose this. I’d choose us. _Us_ us, not skating-partners us. I want this. Right now, this is what I want more than anything.”

He smiles at her, his eyes gentle on her face, and her stomach flips - but in a pleasant, giddy way, not from anxiety. “Me too, babe.”

Her mouth forms a smile, too, the corners of her lips tipping up in return. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah._ ” He kisses her smile, so sweetly that Betty’s heart joins her stomach in its gymnastics. “I look at Sophie and Luc and I think - they’re so good together. They’re so sappy together but they also _work_ so well together, but it took them so long to have that. They waited until their skating careers were over. I don’t want that to be us, Betts. I want to be together now. I love you so much, I don’t think I _can_ wait any longer.”

Relief floods through her body. “I love you that much, too. And more.”

“I don’t think so,” he says on a quiet laugh, but before she can begin to playfully fight him on it, he pulls her into his arms and rests his forehead against hers. “But I also think that you’re right. I think we have another Olympics in us. And I think we should try to make that happen.”

Betty’s brow furrows. His words appeal to her inner competitor, but not to the lovesick part of her that just wants to spend mornings lounging in bed with him. “But what if things go badly, like they did before?”

“Then we choose this,” Jughead says easily. “We choose us. But I think we should try for both.”

She studies his face for a moment. The idea makes her apprehensive, but she trusts him, and she loves him, and the faith that he has in their future fills her up with a bubbly kind of glee. “Do you really think we can have it all?” she asks softly.

He presses another kiss to her mouth, like the seal of a promise, and tells her, “I do.”

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(Betty echoes those exact words back to him four years later, in the very same place, the rink tolerably chilly in the middle of the summer, its ceiling strung with small, sparkling lights in place of the large fluorescents, Jughead’s fingers gently fitting a silver band onto one of her own.

Two weeks afterward, they do a brief telephone interview with the _Montreal Gazette_ , confirming the news of their marriage and fielding questions about their future. When the interviewer asks, _Will you go for a third gold medal? That’s a record that has yet to be achieved!_ Betty gives a polite laugh and says that anything’s possible.

And Jughead winks at her, his hand sliding gently over her abdomen as he leans into her phone’s speaker to add: “Good things do come in threes.”)

 

 

**fin.**


End file.
